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UNIT.  OF  CAUF.  LIBRARY.  LOS 


LADY  BRANKSMERE 


BY    THE    AUTHOR    OF 
"PHYLLIS,"    "MOLLY    BAWN,"    "MRS.    GEOFFREY,"    "DORIS,"    ETC. 


CHICAGO   AND   NEW   YORK: 
BELFORD,  CLARKE   &   COMPANY, 

PUBLISHERS. 


TROWS 
NEW  YORK. 


LADY    BRANKSMERE. 


CHAPTER  I. 

"Be  ready  for  all  changes  in  thy  fortune." 

IN  the  orchard  the  sudden  burning  sun  is  drawing  up  a 
warm  soft  steam  from  the  moist  earth.  Already  the  walks 
are  growing  carpeted  with  the  white  and  pink  wealth  of 
the  apple-trees  that  are  now  so  old  and  gnarled  as  to  be 
venerable. 

Soft  gleams  of  light  are  stealing  shyly  through  the 
branches,  and  are  clinging  tenderly  to  the  ivied  walls  of 
the  ancient  gateway.  Everything  is  so  remarkably  still, 
that  the  humming  of  some  bees  in  the  blossoms  near 
sounds  ridiculously  loud,  and  the  twittering  of  the  spar- 
rows under  the  eaves  almost  oppressive.  "  A  sense  of 
heavy  harmonies  "  makes  itself  felt,  and  every  moment  the 
heat  seems  to  grow  more  pronounced.  Indeed,  this  April 
sunshine  is  as  hot,  as  languorous,  as  though  it  belonged  to 
its  sister  of  June. 

Last  night  the  rain  fell  noisily,  the  morhing  as  it  broke 
was  still  washed  with  it,  and  the  dawning  was  dull  and 
sorrowful  ;  but  now  a  full  and  perfect  noon  is  at  hand,  and 
the  air  seems  only  the  sweeter  for  the  refreshing  showers 
that  deluged  the  hours  of  darkness. 

Some  straggling  rose-trees  that  are  fighting  hard  with 
the  gooseberry  bushes  for  room  to  fling  wide  their  arms, 
are,  even  thus  early,  covered  with  red  buds  ;  drooping 
honeysuckles  are  making  gay  the  gaunt  old  walls,  and  over 
there  in  the  little  three-cornered  grass-plot — that  is  the 
joy  of  Angelica's  heart — a 

"  Lilacs  cleaving  cones  have  burst, 

.The  milk-white  flowers  revealing." 

There  is  a  bleating  of  lambs  in  the  grassy  fields  below, 
a  sound  of  quick  life  in  the  haggard  where  the  young 


2130483 


4  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

calves  are  sporting  in  the  spasmodic,  awkward  fashion 
that  they  know.  A  cry  from  the  lone  cuckoo  comes  from 
the  dewy  woods  of  Branksmere  far,  far  below.  Nature 
has  roused  at  last  from  its  long  rest  ;  the  world  is  wide 
awake  ;  a  young  and  happy  world,  growing  hourly  into  a 
fuller  beauty.  Flowers  are  springing  beneath  the  feet, 

"  And  grace  and  beauty  everywhere 
Are  flushing  into  life." 

Even  the  gray  old  house  itself,  that  looks  as  if  centuries 
of  suns  had  gilded  it  from  time  to  time,  seems  to-day  to 
have  yielded  once  again  to  this  latest  Apollo,  and  to  have 
grown  fresher,  warmer,  because  of  his  embrace. 

Outside  the  house,  indeed,  all  is  sunshine.  Alas  !  inside 
all  is  gloom  ! 

They  are  sitting,  everyone  of  them,  in  the  old  school- 
room, in  solemn  conclave,  and  in  a  stiff,  though  unpre- 
meditated circle.  As  a  rule  it  is  toward  this  rather  dilap- 
idated apartment  they  always  verge  when  perplexed,  or 
rejoiced,  or  angered  about  anythrng.  Margery  is  sitting 
well  forward  on  her  chair  with  a  little  angry  pucker  on 
her  pretty  forehead.  Angelica,  a  little  slender  maiden, 
with  a  face  that  resembles  her  name,  is  looking  distressed  ; 
Peter,  embarrassed  ;  Dick  has  taken  his  sleek  head  into  his 
hands,  and  is  gazing  moodily  at  the  carpet  as  though  bent 
on  piercing  the  inkstains  to  find  the  original  pattern  ;  the 
twins,  sitting  side  by  side  in  their  little  dimity  pinafores, 
are  plainly  ready  for  open  war  at  a  moment's  notice. 

"  To  think  that  she  should  be  coming  to-night !  "  says 
Margery  at  last.  Now  that  Muriel  has  deserted  the  home 
nest  and  is  away  on  her  wedding  tour,  Margery,  as  Miss 
Daryl,  seems  to  have  gained  a  little  in  dignity.  "When 
it  was  a  fortnight  from  us  it  seemed  nothing — even  a  week 
ago  we  could  breathe  !  But  now — to-night ! " 

"  It  is  terrible.  I  feel  half-dead  with" fright,"  murmurs 
Angelica  plaintively.  "  What  will  she  do  ?  Send  us 
away  ?  " 

"  Scatter  us  to  the  four  corners  of  the  earth,  most  likely. 
Turrr  us  out  of  doors  without  a  penny." 

"Won't  she  give  us  anything  to  eat?"  asks  one  of  the 
twins — Blanche — in  an  awe-stricken  tone.  She  looks  at 
May,  her  twin  sister,  who  is  a  plump  little  thing  of  about 
eight  or  nine,  with  a  glance  of  the  deepest  commiseration. 
She  herself  is  delicately  fat  too,  and,  indeed,  the  children 
are  so  alike  in  all  respects,  that  without  a  distinguishing 


LADY  BRANKSMERE,  5 

mark,  it  would  at  times  be  impossible  to  know  one  from 
the  other.  Dormer,  the  old  nurse,  has  sought  to  solve  this 
mystery  by  the  means  of  two  little  ribbons,  one  white,  one 
pink,  to  be  fastened  somewhere  on  their  frocks  each  morn- 
ing." But  what  is  easier  to  the  frolicsome  twins  than  to 
change  their  beds  at  night,  when  Dormer  is  loudly  snor- 
ing, and  confound  by  this  means  their  identity  in  the 
morning.  To-day,  for  example,  by  this  simple  device 
Blanche  is  May  and  May  is  Blanche.  They  are  ingenuous 
children,  and  their  countenances  do.  not  conceal  the  fact 
that  they  are  in  a  frame  of  mind  distinctly  hopeful,  any- 
thing in  the  shape  of  a  row  being  sweet  to  their  souls. 

"  Not  so  much  as  a  crust,"  says  Dick,  the  second  brother, 
lifting  his  pale  student  face  from  his  hands  to  gaze  at  the 
children  with  brilliant  eyes  in  which  a  quaint  gleam  of 
mirth  is  always  shining.  "  Out  you'll  go,  supperless.  Oh  ! 
what  a  little  time  lies  between  you  and  utter  destitution. 
The  day  is  far  spent.  Soon  the  night  will  be  here,  and 
with  it  our  unknown  but  ogreish  sister-in-law.  Poor  little 
May  and  Blanche,  I  pity  you  !  " 

"  It  won't  be  worse  for  us  than  for  you,"  says  Blanche, 
indignantly.  But  Dick  has  gone  back  to  his  original  posi- 
tion with  his  head  in  his  hands.  Perhaps  he  is  enjoying 
the  situation  a  little  ! 

"  So  odd,  her  never  writing  us  a  line,"  says  Margery. 
"  I  argue  from  that,  that  she  is  sure  to  be  a  distinctly  diffi- 
cult person." 

"  But  perhaps  if  we .  Did  any  of  us  write  to  her  ? " 

asks  Angelica,  nervously. 

"Certainly  not !  Why  should  we  ?"  demands  Margery. 
"When  first  Billy  wrote  to  say  he  was  engaged  to  her,  we 
learned  she  was  a  person — a — a  nobody,  in  fact,  who 
was  being  paid  by  two  old  people  (cousins  or  something  of 
hers)  to  take  care  of  them,  and  considering  Billy,  since 
poor  papa's  death,  is  the  head  of  the  house,  and  must  be 
a  baronet  some  day,  we — we  naturally  thought  he  should 
have  done  better  ;  so  we  didn't  write  to  her." 

"And  now  the  tables  are  turned,"  says  Peter,  stretching 
his  long  arms  lazily,  "and  she  is  the  Croesus  and  we  the 
poor  connections.  Well,  I  should  think  she'd  remember  it 
all.  I'm  rather  repentant  now  we  didn't  write." 

"•Things  are  different  now,  of  course.  Then  she  was — 
goodness  knows  who — now  she  proves  to  be  General  Or- 
merod's  niece,  and  has  come  in  for  a  tremendous  fortune 
by  his  death." 


6  LADY  ERANKSMERE. 

"  Why  couldn't  Billy  have  given  us  a  hint,"  murmurs 
Angelica.  "  Or,  why  didn't  we  write  afterward." 

"  Because  we  were  ashamed,"  guesses  one  of  the  twins 
promptly  ;  she  is  instantly  crushed. 

"Nobody  is  ashamed!"  says  Margery,  with  a  rather 
heightened  color.  "  But  we  need  not  waste  time  discus- 
sing absurdities.  The  thing  is  that  Billy  and  she  are 
coming  here  to-night  from  their  honeymoon,  and  that  I 
expect  we  shall  receive  but  scant  civility  at  her  hands. 
Oh  !  If  Muriel  were  only  here  to  help  us." 

"  Now,  that's  a  thing  that  makes  me  more  uneasy  than 
anything,"  says  Dick,  suddenly  growing  intensely  earnest. 
"Muriel's  marriage,  I  mean.  Did  you  notice  her  face  the 
day  of  tiie  wedding.  It  was  a  study.  What  was  there  in 
it  when  she  stood  at  the  altar  with  Branksmere  ?  Was  it 
terror  or  nervousness — or — or  hatred  !  " 

Margery  has  brushed  a  book  off  the  table  near  her  with 
an  awkwardness  foreign  to  her,  and  now  stoops  to  pick 
it  up. 

"  Hatred  of  whom  ?  "  asks  Angelica. 

"  Why,  that  is  just  it,  of  course.  Of  whom  ;  Staines 
was  in  church,  but  I  should  think  it  was  all  at  an  end  be- 
tween him  and  her,  or  she  wouldn't  have  married  Branks- 
mere." 

"Yes,  I  saw  Staines.  Considering  the  marriage  was  so 
private,  and  considering,  too,  that  he  had  once  been  a 
lover  of  hers,  I  thought  it  in  excessive  bad  taste  his  being 
in  the  church  that  morning,"  says  Peter,  slowly. 

"Then  where  does  the  hatred  come  in?"  asks  Angelica, 
curiously.  Margery  casts  a  swift  glance  at  her,  but  the 
younger  girl  does  not  catch  it. 

"Where,  indeed,"  says  Dick,  a  little  vaguely.  "Not  for 
Staines,  according  to  Peter  ;  and  not  for  Branksmere,  I— 
suppose." 

"  Let  us  keep  to  the  subject  in  hand,"  says  Margery, 
perhaps  a  little  sharply.  "  How  can  you  all  guess  and 
worry  about  an  imaginary  ill,  when  the  real  thing  is  so 
near  ? " 

"What  a  change  it  will  all  be,"  says  Dick,  suddenly,  as 
if  following  out  a  train  of  thought.  "  Billy,  who  has  been 
so  seldom  here,  now  master ;  and  Margery  deposed  from 
her  post  as  mistress  for  an  utter  stranger.  Something  telis 
me  we  shall  be  not  only  the  wiser,  but  the  sadder  for  the 
coming  of  this  new  young  woman." 

"  Perhaps'she  is  an  old  young  woman,"  says  Angelica. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  7 

"  Catch  Billy  doing  a  thing  of  that  sort,"  remarks  Peter. 
"  Not  likely.  She's  young,  you  take  my  word  for  it.  And 
they  say  youth  is  intolerant.  Dick,  I  share  your  uncom- 
fortable presentiment.  I  feel  we  have  caught  a  Tartar." 

"Poor  old  Billy  !  If  that  be  so  there  is  a  pebbly  walk 
before  him,"  says  Angelica,  with  a  sigh.  "  And  when  one 
comes  to  think  of  it,  I  believe  Billy  was  about  the  best  of 
us,  too." 

"  He  was,"  says  Peter,  in  the  subdued  tone  of  one  who 
is  conversing  about  his  beloved  dead.  "  From  my  soul  I'm 
sorry  for  him  !  Marriage  with  a  woman  of  that  sort — a 
virago — as  I  feel  sure  she  is,  means  eternal  misery.  Be- 
cause if  you  don't  murder  her  by  quick  means  she  murders 
you  by  slow  ones.  Billy  used  to  be  as  good-natured  a  fel- 
low as  one  could  ask  to  meet.  What  he  is  now,  beneath 
that  woman's  influence,  I  don't  pretend  to  know.  Dear 
old  boy  ;  he  has  my  sympathy  at  all  events.  He  was 
always  so  quiet,  so — so —  Here  his  eloquence  receives 
a  check.  "  What  is  the  word  ?  So —  Confound  it,"  says 
he — "  what  I  mean  is  that  he  was  so — so " 

"  Quite  so  !  "  interrupts  Dick,  gravely.  "  I  entirely  agree 
with  you  ;  and  am  sure  he  was  all  that  and  a  great  deal 
more." 

"  I  wish  to  goodness  Muriel  hadn't  chosen  this  time  of 
all  others  to  go  and  get  married,"  says  Margery,  almost  in- 
dignantly: "she  would  have  been  the  correct  person  to 
receive  them.  She  is  always  so  calm,  so  self-possessed. 
There  is  a  dignity  about  Muriel  that  nothing  could  ruffle. 
Not  even  a  sister-in-law  who  is  coming  to  drive  us  all  into 
the  wilderness." 

"A  rash  statement,"  says  Dick,  sententiously. 

"  Not  a  bit  of  it.  Do  you  think  twenty  Mrs.  Daryls 
could  make  Muriel  tremble  ?  On  the  contrary,  the  twenty 
would  tremble  before  her." 

"  My  dear.  Pray  spare  poor  Billy.  He  is  not  the  anx- 
ious proprietor  of  a  harem  ;  he  is  afflicted  with  only  one 
sultana." 

"Pshaw!  I'm  not  thinking  of  Billy,"  says  Miss  Daryl, 
impatiently,  "  but  of  Muriel.  I  wonder  you  can  all  be  so 
blind  to  the  fact  that  she  is  the  one  who  could  have  coped 
successfully  with  this — this " 

" Entr'acte,"  suggests  Dick. 

"This  difficulty.  She  is  the  only  person  I  know  who 
never  gets  frightened  or  flushed  by  pressure  of  circum- 
stances ;  who  defies  nervousness.  Altogether,"  cries  Mar- 


8  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

gery,  with  a  glow  of  admiration,  "  I  regard  Muriel  as  one 
whose  dignity  could  not  be  lowered." 

"She  must  be  a  phenomenon,  then,"  says  Dick,  "as  I 
never  knew  anyone  whose  dignity  could  not  be  destroyed  by 
a  well-planted  blow  in  the  stomach  !"  This  low  and  rude 
piece  of  information  is  received  in  utter  silence.  The  twins 
are  guilty  of  an  ill-timed  attempt  at  a  giggle,  but  are  sum- 
marily hushed  into  a  silence  befitting  the  occasion. 

"  Perhaps — 'after  all — Billy's  wife  will  be  nice,"  hazards 
Angelica,  vaguely.  Everybody  stares.  t  This  startling  sug- 
gestion puts  Dick's  vulgar  speech  to  flight  at  once.  It  is 
no  more  remembered. 

"Nice!  Nonsense.  What  would  make  her  nice?" 
demands  Margery.  "  Did  anybody  ever  hear  of  a  nice 
heiress  ?  They  are  all  the  poorest  of  poor  creatures." 

"No!"  exclaims  Blanche  breathlessly.  "Well,  I  never 
knew  that  before  !  I  always  thought  an  heiress  was  a  per- 
son with  big  bags  full  of  gold  ! " 

"And?"' 

"  And  now  you  say  she  is  a  beggar,"  says  the  child  ex- 
citedly. "The  poorest  of  the  poor." 

"  May  blessings  light  upon  your  verdant  head,"  inter- 
poses Peter,  gayly.  "  No,  my  good  child,  you  are  wrong 
for  once.  Our  heiress  is  not  a  beggar." 

"  She'll  be  worse  than  the  usual  run  of  'em,  I  shouldn't 
wonder,"  says  Dick,  with  predetermined  misery.  "Her 
being  so  abjectly  poor  when  Billy  first  met  her  and  fell  in 
love  with  her  will  only  heighten  the  arrogance  that  I  feel 
certain  distinguishes  her  now.  That  sudden  springing 
into  a  fabulous  fortune  will  make  her  doubly  unendur- 
able." 

There  is  so  much  grim  prognostication  in  his  tone  that 
Margery's  heart  dies  within  her. 

"Oh,  that  it  was  to-morrow  morning  !"  she  cries  pa- 
thetically. Upon  her,  as  Miss  Daryl,  will  fall  the  horrors 
of  having  to  make  a  gracious  display  of  welcome. 

"  I  wonder  when  she  became  rich  she  didn't  throw  Billy 
over  with  a  view  to  gaining  a  more  distinguished  parti" 
some  one  is  saying  when  she  brings  herself  back  from  her 
dismal  imaginings.  It  is  Angelica  who  is  speaking,  and 
her  speech,  savoring  as  it  does  in  an  aside  sort  of  way  of 
a  wish  to  take  the  part  of  the  new-comer,  is  received  with 
a  marked  disfavor. 

"  I  dare  say  she  was  ashamed  !  Things  had  gone  so  far 
with  her  and  him,"  says  Peter,  who,  though  as  a  rule  care- 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  9 

less  of  his  neighbor's  shortcomings,  seems  determined  to 
find  fault  with  the  new  sister  thrust  upon  him.  "  But  1 
expect  why  she  didn't  brave  everything,  even  the  world's 
censure,  was  because  Billy  must  get  old  Grumpy's  title 
sooner  or  later.  And  a  title  is  dear  to  the  soul  of  theflar- 
venue." 

"She  can't  be' called  that,  Peter.  It  appears  she  is  as 
well-born  as  any  of  us.  But  her  father  was  so  poor 
that ' 

"  Well,  yes.  That's  so,  of  course,"  acknowledges  Peter, 
magnanimously.  "  But  what  I  mean  is  that  she  wanted 
to  be  '  my  lady  ? ' ' 

"  '  Grumpy '  is  good  for  many  a  year  yet." 

"  I  hope  so.  Until  I  can  take  my  degree  at  Cambridge 
at  all  events.  I  can't  say  I  admire  Sir  Mutius  as  a  private 
individual,  but  as  an  uncle  who  can  pay  my  college  fees 
he  is — pretty  well." 

"  '  Sharper  than  a  serpent's  tooth  it  is  to  have  a  thank- 
less child/  "  quotes  Dick,  mournfully. 

"  I'm  not  his  child,  the  gods  be  praised,"  returns  Peter, 
stretching  himself,  lazily. 

"  Has  a  serpent  got  a  tooth  ? "  asks  fat  little  May,  with 
round  open  eyes  and  wonderment.  "  I  thought  they 
sucked  everything  !  " 

"  I  know  one  serpent  who  has  got  lots  of  teeth,"  re- 
sponds her  youngest  brother,  with  calm,  but  crushing 
force.  "  Regular  molars  !  " — This  last  word  seems  full  of 
doubt  and  horrible  suggestiveness  to  the  listening  May — 
"  and  it  is  coming  here  to-night !  " 

"Don't  be  filling  her  poor  little  head  with  nonsense, 
Dick,"  says  Angelica,  softly. 

"  I  don't  know  how  Sir  Mutius  could  be  poor  mamma's 
brother,"  ponders  Margery.  "  One — so  soft,  so  sweet,  so 

perfect — the  other ugh  !  "  She  purses  up  her  pretty 

mouth  into  a  regular  O  of  disgust. 

"He  looks  so  commonplace,"  continues  Angelica,  "so 
vulgar.  He  says  his  lineage  is  above  reproach,  and  the 
title  certainly  is  old — but,  Mumm  !  Was  there  ever  such 
a  name  ?  It  suggests  nothing  but  trade  and  champagne." 

"  Tell  him  so." 

"  Thank  you  !  I  don't  want  my  head  in  my  hand." 

"  What  a  combination  the  entire  name  is.  Sir  Mutius 
Mumm  !  I'm  certain  our  maternal  grandparent  was  a 
wit,  and  gave  that  Christian  name  to  hi*  only  son  as  an 
heirloom." 


ro  LADY  BRANKSMERR, 

Margery  leans  back  in  her  chair  as  she  says  this,  and 
forgetful  of  the  coming  misery  laughs  aloud.  Such  a 
gay,  pretty,  heart-whole  laugh  !  It  does  one  good  to  hear 
it. 

"  Is  it  possible  that  I  can  hear  you  jest  with  such  trouble 
staring  us  in  the  face,"  says  Dick,  reproachfully.  "Think 
of  to-night,  and  what  it  is  bringing  you." 

"  It  will  bring  Billy  too,  though,"  says  Blanche,  with  a 
touch  of  defiance  in  her  childish  treble.  "  Billy  won't  let 
her  touch  us."  She  has  evidently  great  faith  in  the  eldest 
brother. 

"  Billy,  indeed !  I  expect  we  shall  have  to  call  him  Wil- 
liam now,"  declares  Margery,  gloomily. 

At  this  Blanche  gives  way  to  a  sudden,  irrepressible 
sense  of  amusement,  and  chuckles  very  loudly. 

"  Fancy  calling  Billy — William  !  Oh  !  it's  nonsense, 
stuffy  nonsense.  '  Good-morning,  William,'  "—putting  on 
a  grown-up  air — "  '  I  hope  I  see  you  well,  William  ! '  Ha, 
ha,  ha  !  I  never  could  do  that.  I  don't  care  what  his  wife 
says,  I'll  always  call  him  Billy.  Why  he  doesn't  look  like 
anything  else." 

"  Wait  till  Mrs.  Billy  hears  you.  She'd  be  as  mad  as  a 
hatter  if  she  heard  such  a  disrespectful,  frivolous  term  ap- 
plied to  HER  husband  !  " 

"  If  she  is,"  murmurs  Angelica,  patting  the  twin's  dim- 
pled hand  reassuringly,  "  We'll  tie  her  !  " 

At  this  time-honored  joke  they  everyone  laugh  in  a 
body,  with  all  youth's  tenderness  for  an  ancient  friend,  as 
though  it  was  the  freshest  in  the  world. 

" Mrs.  Billy"  repeats  Margery  softly  from  the  low  seat 
near  the  fire.  "  Ah  !  how  I  wish  she  was  some  one  who 
might  be  called  that.  It  would  so  settle  things." 

"  Don't  delude  yourself  with  false  hopes  ;— I'm  certain 

.  Blanche,  if  you  persist  in  playing  the  fool  with 

those  straws  and  the  fire,  you'll  see  yourself  presently  at 
an  untimely  end  ;  and  I  don't  suppose  our  new  relative 
will  be  pleased  to  find  the  house  redolent  of  roasted  pork 
on  her  arrival." 

"  Peter  !     Don't  be  horrid." 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  it  is  quite  true,"  cries  May,  excitedly.  "  I 
read  the  other  day  that  Mr.  Mongoose,  the  African  ex- 
plorer, declared  human  flesh  was  quite — quite — that  is — 
be  said  we  were  all  pigs." 

"  May  !  If  you  will  read  abominable  things  of  that  sort, 
please  keep  them  to  yourself.  Oh  !  dear,  how  the  twi- 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  11 

light  is  coming  ;  soon  it  will  be  night,  and  then I 

don't  in  the  least  know  how  I  shall  receive  her." 

"Throw  your  arms  around  her  neck.  Press  her  to  your 
throbbing  boo-o-som.  Break  into  sympathetic  sobs,  and 
cry,  '  Sweet  sister,  how  glad  I  am  to  welcome  you  to  these 
ancestral  halls.'  " 

"Not  if  I  know  it,"  exclaims  Miss  Daryl,  indignantly. 
"  I  think  I  see  myself,  indeed  !  " 

"  Very  silly  of  you,  my  dear  ;  there  isn't  a  looking-glass 
within  a  mile  of  you,  so  far  as  I  know." 

"  I  wonder  if  she  will  be  big?"  twitters  May,  who  is 
rather  irrepressible,  alluding  to  the  unknown  Mrs.  Daryl. 

"  Huge  !  "  replies  Dick,  promptly.  "  A  regular  strap- 
per !  Stands  five  foot  eleven  in  her  vamps.  And  walks 
about  the  farm  all  day  long  in  top-boots  and  leggings,  and 
a  cart-whip  with  which  she  lays  about  her,  generously. 
There  is  one  small  peculiarity,  too,  in  our  new  sister,  which 
may  be  mentioned,"  continues  Dick,  leaning  confidentially 
toward  the  somewhat  disconcerted  twin.  "  She  can't  bear 
little  girls  !  Any  sort  of  girl  is  obnoxious  to  her,  but  little 
ones  drive  her  into  a  fine  frenzy.  I  have  heard  from  re- 
liable authority  that  she  could  willingly — nay  gladly — flay 
them  alive  ! " 

"  Oh,  Dick  !  "  says  May,  whimpering  sadly. 

"  Fact,  I  assure  you.  I'm  awfully  sorry  for  you  and 
poor  Blanche,  but  I  don't  see  how  I  can  help  you.  I 
doubt  there's  a  bad  time  before  you." 

"  Richard — to  business  !  "  interrupts  Margery,  shortly. 
"You'll  give  that  child  softening  of  the  brain  if  you  per- 
sist in  your  present  evil  courses.  I  am  sure,  too,  it  is  fool- 
ish to  be  so  down-hearted.  Billy  will  see  we  are  not  alto- 
gether flung  upon  the  world." 

"  I  dare  say.  But  Madam  will  see  that  we  march, 
nevertheless.  She  will  hardly  like  td  have  so  many  guests 
perpetually  in  her  house." 

"  Who  can  blame  her  ?  /shouldn't  like  it  either,"  mur- 
murs Margery,  sighing.  "  Perhaps  she  will  effect  a  com- 
promise, and  propose  keeping  the  children  with  her." 

At  this  hopeful  prospect  the  twins,  without  a  word  of 
warning,  set  up  a  dismal  howling.  Dick's  picture  is  still 
fresh  in  their  minds.  They  dissolve  into  floods  of  tears, 
and  are  with  difficulty  even  so  far  restored  as  to  be  able 
to  give  a  cause  for  their  grief. 

"  Oh,  Meg  !  "  cry  they,  flinging  themselves  bodily  upon 
Margery,  "  you  wouldn't  do  it.  You  know  you  couldn't 


12  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

doit!  Oh!  don't  leave  us  behind  you.  If  you  must  go 
take  us  with  you.  Don't  leave  us  alone  with  her.  Don't 
give  us  up  to  that  awful  big  woman  with  the  cart-whip." 

Their  wailing  is  piteous,  and  rather  oppressive. 

"  What  a  nuisance  you  are,  Dick,"  says  Peter  impatient- 
ly, "  filling  the  heads  of  those  silly  children  with  such 
folly." 

"  No — no,  dear  little  cats,  we  will  all  go  together,"  Mar- 
gery is  saying  soothingly  to  the  twins.  It  is  plain  to 
everybody  that  she  is  very  nearly  on  the  brink  of  tears 
herself. 

"  Oh  !  why  are  we  not  more  fortunate  or  more  rich  ?  " 
she  sighs. 

"  I  shouldn't  care  to  be  rich.  I  should  like  to  be 
famous,"  says  Dick  slowly. 

"  I  shouldn't  care  to  be  either.  Extremes  are  a  bore. 
I  only  ask  to  be  comfortable,"  puts  in  Peter,  with  another 
lazy  yawn.  "  Even  Croesus  had  his  troubles.  Money 
goes  but  a  short  way." 

"With  some  people,  certainly,"  laughs  Angelica. 

"  On  the  road  to  happiness,  I  would  have  added,  my 
sweet  angel,"  says  Peter.  "  It's  poor  stuff,  when  all  is 
told." 

"  Is  it  ?  I  should  like  to  have  a\trial  of  it,"  returns  Mar- 
gery dryly. 

But  Peter  is  not  listening  to  her  ;  he  is  instead  caroll- 
ing at  the  top  of  his  fresh  young  lungs  a  verse  in  favor  of 
his  merry  theory — 

"  '  Then  why  should  we  quarrel  for  riches, 

Or  any  such  glittering  toys  ; 
A  light  heart  and  a  thin  pair  of  breeches, 

Will  go  through  the  world,  my  brave  boys.'  " 

"  I  don't  think  that's  a  nice  song,  Meg,  do  you  ?  "  asks 
Blanche,  who  has  hardly  yet  recovered  from  the  late  storm. 
"  And  I  shouldn't  like  a  thin  pair  of  breeches  when  we 
start — would  you  ?  Because  winter  will  be  coming  on, 
and  we  should  be  cold." 

This  infantile  touch  of  caution,  convulses  Peter  with 
delight. 

"  What  shall  we  do  when  first  she  is  cross  to  us,  Meg  ?  " 
asks  May,  nervously ,  whose  thoughts  are  still  upon  the 
"  big  woman." 

"  Fall  upon  her  and  rend  her  limb  from  limb,"  suggests 
Dick,  severely. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  13 

"  Smite  her,  hip  and  thigh,"  supplements  Peter. 

"  I  wish  Tommy  was  here,"  says  Margery,  suddenly. 
"Though  only  a  cousin,  and  quite  the  greatest  fool  I 
know,  still  he  is  a  sort  of  person  that  one  can  speak  to." 

"  Or  even  Curzon,"  murmurs  Angelica.  "  By-the-bye, 
I  wonder  he  hasn't  been  here  all  day  ? " 

"  I  don't  see  what  good  he  would  be  except  to  sit  in 
Meg's  pocket  and  stare  at  her  as  if  she  had  seven  heads." 

"  He  doesn't  sit  in  my  pocket,"  returns  Miss  Daryl,  in- 
dignantly. "  I  never  heard  such  a  libel !  " 

"  Even  if  he  did,  he  might  sit  in  a  worse  place,"  says 
Angelica,  sweetly. 

"  Ah  !  talk  of  somebody,"  cries  Margery,  quite  forgetful 
of  her  ill-temper  of  a  moment  since.  "  Why,  there  he  is 
— coming  across  the  lower  lawn.  I'll  call  him.  He  hasn't 
heard  a  word  about  their  coming  to-night." 

She  runs  to  the  window,  pushes  the  casements  wide, 
and  makes  a  wild  effort  to  attract  the  attention  of  the  tall 
figure  in  the  distance. 

"Curzon!  Curzon!  Hi!  Mr.  Bellew!  Drat  him!  I 
don't  believe  he  has  got  an  ear  in  his  silly  head,"  says  Miss 
Daryl,  who  is  not  particular  as  to  the  nicety  of  her  lan- 
guage when  immersed  in  the  bosom  of  her  family. 
"  Cur — zon  !  Curzon  !  I  say  !  " 

"Elegant  language  !  Superfine,  upon  my  word,"  says  a 
gruff  voice  at  this  moment.  Does  it  come  from  heaven  or 
the  earth  beneath  ?  A  balcony  runs  outside  the  school- 
•room,  extending  from  it  to  the  library,  and  over  this  bal- 
cony the  voice  seems  to  come. 

"  It's  Grumpy  himself,"  exclaims  Meg,  in  a  horrified 
tone,  falling  back  into  Peter's  arms. 

"  Uncle  Mutius!  "  whispers  Angelica. 

"  Then  mum's  the  word,"  says  Dick,  throwing  himself 
hurriedly  into  the  nearest  chair. 

The  heavy  sound  of  pottering  old  footsteps,  the  thud  of 
a  stout  stick,  and  now — Grumpy  ! 

Sir  Mutius,  stepping  through  the  open  window  into  the 
schoolroom,  looks  laboriously  around  him.  He  is  not,  per- 
haps, aware  that  there  is  a  young  man  behind  him,  who  is 
following  his  footmarks  as  fast  as  his  legs  can  carry  him. 

"  So,"  says  Sir  Mutius  Mumm,  with  a  sniff.  "This  is 
how  you  comport  yourself,  Margery,  when  the  eyes  of 
your  relatives  are  not  on  you." 

"As — as  I  am  now,  Uncle?"  demands  Margery,  who  is 
sitting  in  the  demurest  attitude  possible  to  her,  with  her 


14  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

hands  crossed  dutifully  before  her.  "  I — I  am  very  sorry 
to  disappoint  you  in  any  way,  but  I  would  not  abuse  your 
trusting  nature,  uncle,  and  conscience  compels  me  to  con- 
fess that  I  don't  always  sit  like  this.  Sometimes  I — stand.'' 

"And  sometimes  you  hollo,  at  young  men  out  of  a  win- 
dow," stutters  Sir  Mutius,  angrily.  "  How  dare  you  be  so 
impertinent  to  me,  Miss  !  D'ye  think  I  haven't  got  eyes 
in  my  head,  eh  ?  " 

"  Even  if  you  had,  I  don't  see  how  you  could  hear  out 
of  them,"  says  Margery,  who  is  in  a  mutinous  mood. 

"What  I  want  to  know  is,"  returns  old  Grumpy,  strik- 
ing his  stick  savagely  upon  the  carpet,  "how  you,  who 
probably  call  yourself  a  respectable  young  woman,  can 
explain  away  the  fact  of  having  yelled  an  invitation  to  a 
young  man  across  an  acre  of  grass,  and  of  having  used  in 
my  hearing  such  a  low  term  as  '  drat  it.'  I  only  wish  your 
Aunt  Selina  had  heard  you." 

There  is  somewhere  in  the  dim  recesses  of  Mumm's 
Hall,  a  gaunt  spinster,  sister  to  Sir  Mutius  and  aunt  to  the 
young  Daryls,  whose  name  Selina  has  been  transmogri- 
fied into  Selma  by  Sir  Mutius. 

"  That's  very  unbrotherly  of  you,"  says  Margery. 
"  You  should  be  anxious  to  spare  her  all  the  pain  you 
can." 

There  is  a  touch  of  open  mischief  in  the  lovely,  broad 
little  smile  that  accompanies  this  wilful  speech. 

Sir  Mutius  swells  with  rage.  He  is  a  short,  stout  little 
man,  with  a  corporation,  an  over-weening  opinion  of  his 
own  importance,  a  fiery  eye,  and  a  sandy  wig.  Besides  all 
these  qualifications,  he  has  a  temper  that  knows  no  con- 
trol. What  the  crushing  remark  he  is  preparing  for  Mar- 
gery may  be,  is  never  known,  because  at  this  moment  the 
young  man  behind  him  comes  into  full  view. 

It  is  plain,  however,  to  the  Daryls,  that  he  had  not 
known  he  was  following  Sir  Mutius,  because  of  the  fall  of 
his  ingenuous  countenance  as  his  eyes  met  those  of  the  irate 
old  baronet.  He  is  a  tall,  indeed,  a  splendidly-built  young 
man,  with  a  figure  that  Hercules  need  not  have  sneered 
at ;  but  with  a  face,  alas,  that  falls  far  short  of  the  figure. 
His  eyes,  perhaps,  are  above  reproach,  so  clear,  so  blue, 
so  straight-looking  they  are,  but  as  for  the  rest  of  him! — 
his  nose  is  impossible,  his  mouth  huge,  his  cheek  bones 
distinctly  en  evidence.  As  for  his  mustache,  it  is  not  worth 
speaking  about  at  all,  and  his  hair  is  abominably  void  of 
curl.  He  is  ugly !  There  is  no  doubt  about  it,  he  is  dis- 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  15 

tinctly  ugly  ;  but  with  this  saving  clause — that  nowhere, 
under  any  circumstances,  could  he  be  taken  for  anything 
but  a  gentleman. 

The  presence  of  Sir  Mutius  seems  to  freeze  him  in  part. 
He  pauses  with  his  foot  midway  between  the  balcony  and 
the  schoolroom,  and  looks  anxiously  at  Margery. 

"  Come  in  young  man,  come  in,"  says  Sir  Mutius,  in  an 
odious  tone.  "  What  are  you  afraid  of,  eh  ?  Seems  to  me 
that  a  young  fellow  like  you  must  consider  himself  almost 
one  of  the  family  to  enter  a  house  through  a  window  like 
a  burglar,  as  you  have  done." 

"And  as  you  have  done,"  says  the  new-comer,  smiling. 

"  Never  mind  me,  sir.  An  uncle  may  come  in  by  a  win- 
dow, I  suppose  when  a  young  jack-a-napes Is  there 

no  hall-door  to  this  house,  I  ask,  that  you  must  needs 
charge  through  a  casement  as  though  you  were  a  mounted 
dragoon,  or  the  most  intimate  friend  of  the  family." 

"  After  all,  Sir  Mutius,  perhaps  I  am  that,"  says  the  tall 
ugly  young  man,  with  a  conciliatory  smile.  "  Intimate,  I 
mean.  I've  been  coming  here,  off  and  on,  ever  since  I  can 
remember  anything." 

"Then  the  sooner  you  put  a  stop  to  your  eternal  com- 
ings, the  better,"  says  the  baronet,  angrily.  "  Margery 
evidently  expects  your  visits,  and — 

"  Uncle  !  "  exclaims  Meg,  rising  to  her  feet  with  a  face 
suffused  with  indignant  shame. 

"I  assure  you  you  are  wrong.  I  did  not  come  to  see 
Margery.  I  came  to  see  Peter  about  a  terrier  pup,"  inter- 
poses Mr.  Bellew,  with  a  haste  that  might  be  termed  ago- 
nized. "  You  remember,  Peter  ? " 

Peter  doesn't ;  but  with  a  noble  desire  to  succor  the 
weak,  declares  at  once  that  the  Irish  terrier  in  the  yard 
shall  be  Curzon's  without  any  further  delay.  There  is  no 
Irish  terrier  in  the  yard. 

"  Thanks,  old  man,"  says  Mr.  Bellew  heartily.  At  this 
moment  he  is  indeed  intensely  grateful. 

"  I  don't  believe  a  word  of  it,"  declares  Sir  Mutius,  with 
true  grace.  "  Terrier  !  What  terrier  ?  Which  terrier  ? 
I  tell  you,  young  man,"  advancing  on  the  astonished  Cur- 
zon — but  Angelica,  who  has  been  terrified  all  along,  here 
rushes  to  the  rescue. 

"  Oh  !  Uncle  Grum — Uncle  Mutius,"  she  corrects  her- 
self nervously,  "are  we  not  unhappy  enough  without  your 
adding  to  our  misery  ?  Mrs.  Daryl,  Billy's  wife,  is  coming 
to-night." 


7o  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  I'm  delighted  to  hear  it.  I  hope  she'll  prove  a  woman 
with  a  character,"  says  Sir  Mutius  with  a  withering  glance 
at  Margery.  "  You  all  require  a  person  who  would  keep 
you  in  order." 

"  To-night !  Nonsense  !  Why,  when  did  you  hear  ?  " 
asks  Curzon  in  a  low  tone  of  Margery. 

"A  telegram  to-day  at  one,"  curtly.  Then  with  a  return 
to  that  grievance  arising  out  of  his  frequent  worshipping 
at  her  shrine.  "  Now  I  hope  you  see  what  your  persistent 
and  ill-timed  visits  here  mean  to  me." 

"That  I  love  you." 

"  Stuff  and  nonsense  !  "  says  Miss  Daryl,  indignantly. 
"  They  mean  public  castigation  at  the  hands  of  that  bad 
old  man.  Oh  !  how  I  wish  you  were  in  Jericho  !  " 

She  moves  away  from  him,  glad  in  the  thought  that  he 
is  stricken  to  the  earth,  and  advances  on  her  uncle. 

"  Now  that  you  have  made  us  all  unutterably  miserable," 
she  says  tearfully,  "  I  hope  you'll  go  away.  If  that  horrid 
woman  is  coming  to-night  there  are  things  that  must  be 
looked  to.  See  ?  "  with  a  little  stamp. 

"  Dear  Uncle  Mutius,  you  will  understand  how  busy  we 
are,  and  have  been,  all  day,  and  how  many  things  have 
still  to  be  done,  and  you  will  forgive  Margery  for  seeming 
a  little  overdone,"  puts  in  Angelica  with  her  soft  smile, 
squeezing  the  impetuous  Margery's  arm  just  a  little. 
"  You  are  going  now  ?  Ah,  that  is  good  of  you.  Good- 
evening,  dear  Uncle  Mutius." 

There  are  moments  when  the  youthful  Angelica,  who  is 
yet  only  half-child,  half-woman,  seems  older  than  Margery, 
who  is  quite  nineteen.  Peter  is  twenty,  Dick  seventeen. 
After  Angelica  there  was  quite  a  pause  until  the  twins 
came — and  the  mother  went.  There  was  a  pause,  too,  af- 
ter the  birth  of  Billy  and  Muriel,  who  are  four  and  three 
years  ojder  than  Peter  ;  but  after  that  the  children  seemed 
to  tread  upon  each  other's  heels,  so  fast  they  came. 

The  mother's  death  had  been  hardly  felt,  they  were  so 
very  young.  But  with  the  death  of  the  father — an  event  now 
two  years  old — there  had  come  the  sad  knowledge  of 
money's  value,  and  all  the  petty  miseries  that  accompany 
straitened  means. 

Sir  Mutius — Mrs.  Daryl's  only  brother — an  old  bachelor 
who  lived  at  Murnm's  Hall,  a  place  situated  about  four 
miles  from  the  Manor,  where  the  Daryls  reside,  had  looked 
after  his  dead  sister's  children  in  a  snappish,  unsympa- 
thetic fashion  when  the  last  blow  fell,  and  the  death  of 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  17 

Mr.  Daryl  had  been  followed  by  the  certainty  that  he  had 
been  living  considerably  beyond  his  means  for  many  years, 
and  that  nothing  but  debts  and  a  very  insufficient  income 
was  all  he  left  behind  him — except  the  eight  children. 

That  was — as  I  have  said — two  years  ago,  and  the  sadly- 
lively,  merry-mournful  family  had  up  to  this  struggled 
through  all  difficulties  with  a  strength  that  only  youth 
could  grant  ;  but  now  to-day  fresh  trials  have  seized  upon 
them.  The  eldest  brother,  Billy,  to  whom,  indeed,  the 
house  and  land  (such  of  it,  at  least,  as  is  not  mortgaged  up 
to  the  hilt)  belongs,  is  bringing  home  a  bride.  A  stranger! 
Horrible  word  !  And  who  is  to  greet  her  ?  Who  ?  There 
is  no  one  at  all  to  go  forward  and  face  the  enemy's  guns, 
now  that  Muriel  is  away.  Now  that  Muriel  is  married  ! 
And  so  strangely  ! 


CHAPTER  II. 

"When  you  come  into  any  fresh  company — I,  observe  their  humors  ;  2, 
suit  your  own  carriage  thereto  ;  by  which  insinuation  you  will  make  their 
converse  more  free  and  open." 

"  THERE'S  a  ring  at  the  door-bell  ;  did  you  hear  it  ?  "  cries 
Angelica,  rising  to  her  feet,  pale  and  nervous.  "They 
have  come  !  I  feel  it  ;  I  know  it,  by  the  cold  thrill  down 
my  back." 

It  is  some  hours  later,  and  the  Daryls  are  waiting  en  masse 
in  the  rather  shabby  library,  and  in  the  very  lowest  spirits, 
for  the  expected  coming  of  their  brother  and  his  wife. 
Now  at  last  all  is  indeed  over  ! 

"  Yes  !  and  there  is  the  knock.  They've  come  to  a  moral," 
says  Peter.  The  twins  grow  pale.  All  in  a  body  move 
solemnly  toward  the  library  door. 

"  Good  heavens  !  why  isn't  Muriel  here  to  receive  them  ?" 
gasps  Margery,  hanging  fire  on  the  threshold.  "  Why  am 
/  to  be  the  victimized  one  ?  I  feel  as  if  I  should  like  to 
faint." 

"  Peter !  a  pin,"  says  Dick,  with  stern  determination  in 
his  tone. 

"No,  no.  I'll  go,  of  course,"  declares  Meg,  hastily. 

"Only "  She  pauses,  and  looks  as  though  she  is  on 

the  point  of  tears. 

"  Don't  be  a  goose,"  puts  in  Peter,  not  unkindly.  "  She 
won't  eat  you  !  She  can't  even  blow  you  into  fine  dust  on 
2 


1 8  LADY  BRAXKSMERE. 

so  short  an  acquaintance.  Here  !  step  out.  Put  your  best 
foot  foremost.  Quick  march  !  And,  for  goodness  sake, 
take  that  lachrymose  expression  off  your  face.  It  would 
hang  you  anywhere.  If  she  sees  she  is  unwelcome,  she'll 
make  it  hot  for  us  later  on." 

"  She'll  do  that  anyhow,"  says  Dick,  grimly,  to  whom 
there  is  evidently  a  soup9on  of  enjoyment  in  the  whole 
affair.  "  Go  on  Meg.  You  shouldn't  scamp  your  duty." 

"  I'm  going,"  whimpers  Margery.  She  takes  a  step  for- 
ward with  what  she  fondly,  but  erroneously,  believes  to  be 
a  valiant  air,  and  tries  to  think  what  Muriel  would  have 
done  on  such  another  occasion  as  this— Muriel,  with  her 
calm,  haughty  face,  her  slow  movements  that  she  hastened 
for  no  man's  pleasure,  and  her  little  strange  smile,  so  cold, 
so  sweet,  that  could  attract  or  subdue,  as  its  owner  willed. 
There  is  a  dignity  about  Muriel  that  she  wishes  she  could 
copy,  if  for  "  this  occasion  only  " — a  savoir  faire — a  sense 
of  breeding,  a 

"  Blanche  !  if  you  tread  on  the  tail  of  my  gown  again," 
breathes  Miss  Daryl  at  this  point  of  her  meditations,  in  an 
angry  whisper,  "  I'll  tear  you  lirnb  from  limb." 

This  awful  threat  being  received  by  the  culprit  with  the 
utmost  indifference,  the  train  once  more  advances.  The 
hall  is  reached. 

"  Mary  Jane  is  just  opening  the  door,  and  her  back  hair 
is  all  down,"  telegraphs  Peter,  over  his  shoulder.  He  is 
with  the  advance  guard,  and  has,  besides,  an  eye  like  a 
gimlet.  "  It  is  sticking  out  like  a  furze  bush,"  he  goes  on, 
excitedly.  "  To  the  front  Meg — and  don't  give  Mrs.  Daryl 
time  to  notice  it,  or  our  reputation  is  lost  forever." 

"  And  the  time  I  took  over  that  girl's  get-up,"  groans 
Angelica,  despairingly. 

"  If  you  could  just  manage  to  throw  yourself  into  Mrs. 
William's  arms  and  lean  heavily  on  her,  all  will  be  well," 
whispers  Dick.  "  You're  a  well-grown  girl,  and  weight 
always  tells.  Do  anything — hurt  her,  even — but  don't  let 
her  see  our  Mary  Jane." 

"  Oh,  why  wasn't  Muriel  here,"  returns  Margery,  with 
quite  a  shiver  of  nervous  horror. 

"  Go  along — you'll  do  well  enough  at  a  pinch,"  says  her 
brother,  noble  encouragement  in  his  tone,  as  he  gives  her 
a  friendly  push  that  sends  her — with  what  the  new-comers 
imagine  to  be  most  flattering  haste — right  into  the  glare 
of  the  lamp. 

Here,  at  the  hall-door,  there  is   a   slight  confusion.     A 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  ig 

little  bundle,  made  up  apparently  of  Eastern  shawls,  is 
standing  near  the  hat-stand.  A  young  man  is  fumbling 
hopelessly  with  these  shawls,  and  Mary  Jane,  who  has  now 
finally  got  rid  of  the  small  amount  of  wits  that  once  were 
hers,  is  curtseying  profoundly  and  unceasingly. 

"  After  all  she  isn't  Irish,  she  is  a  Hindu,"  whispers  Dick, 
"  she  thinks  she  is  once  more  in  the  presence  of  Vishnu, 
the  Pervader.  See  how  she  mops  and  mows.  Poor  thing. 
She  is  very  mad." 

Margery  takes  the  final  step. 

"You  have  come,  Billy,"  she  says,  timidly  advancing 
toward  the  young  man  who  is  trying  so  hopelessly  to  dis- 
entangle the  little  parcel  of  soft  gonds. 

"  So  we  have,  so  we  have,"  cries  Mr.  Daryl,  in  a  cheery 
voice.  He  is  a  man  of  middle  height,  the  very  image  of 
Margery,  and  he  now  abandons  his  efforts  to  unravel  the 
little  form,  to  go  to  his  sister  and  give  her  a  hearty  hug. 
"  Oh  !  there  you  all  are,"  exclaims  he  delightedly,  seeing 
the  other  figures  drawn  up  in  battle  array  in  the  back- 
ground. "  Look,  Willy  !  Here  they  all  are  in  a  body  to 
bid  you  welcome." 

"  Look  ! "  laughs  somebody  from  beneath  the  mufflings. 
"  Oh  !  how  I  wish  I  could.  I  wonder  if  I'll  ever  look  with 
living  eyes  on  anything  again  !  I'm  just  smothered." 

Billy  having  kissed  the  children,  who  are  frightened,  and 
shaken  hands  with  his  brothers  who  are  stolid,  now  once 
more  attacks  the  bundle  and  finally  brings  out  from  it  his 
wife  with  quite  a  flourish  as  if  distinctly  proud  of  her. 

"  He  is  new  to  it,"  says  Peter,  with  fine  contempt,  turn- 
ing to  Angelica. 

"  She's — she's  pretty  !  "  returns  Angelica,  slowly,  and  as 
if  just  awakening  to  something. 

The  greetings,  the  introductions,  have  been  gone 
through.  Mrs.  Daryl  is  quite  a  little  woman,  with  clear 
eyes,  that  have  looked  with  leisurely  keenness  at  each  of 
her  new  kinsfolk  in  turn.  Her  mouth,  if  firm,  is  pleasant 
There  is  no  self-consciousness  about  her,  and  no  shyness 
whatever. 

"  Nice  old  hall,  Billy,"  she  says,  smiling,  when  she  has 
spoken  to  every  one,  and  is  at  last  at  liberty  to  look  round 
her. 

Nice !  All  the  Daryls  exchange  covert  and  furious 
glances  with  each  other.  Nice,  indeed!  when  they  have 
been  accustomed  to  pride  themselves  upon  it  as  being 
(which  it  really  is)  the  finest  hall  in  the  county. 


20  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  I  should  just  like  to  see  the  one  she  has  been  used  to," 
mutters  Peter,  with  extreme  disgust. 

"  Dinner  will  be  ready  in  about  five  minutes,"  says  Mar- 
gery, suggestively.  "You  must  be  very  tired,  and — 

"  Dinner  !  Ah,  you  should  have  mentioned  that,  Billy," 
says  Mrs.  Daryl,  brightly.  "We  dined  at  Wotton  about 
two  hours  ago,  and  to  dine  again  so  soon  would  be  dread- 
ful. As  to  being  tired,  I  never  felt  fresher  in  my  life.  But 
you  must  all  go  to  dinner,  and " 

"We  dined  early.  It  makes  no  difference  at  all,"  says 
Margery,  slowly.  "You  will  like  a  cup  of  tea  instead, 
perhaps  ?" 

"  Presently.  When  -I  have  talked  to  you  all  a  little," 
arranges  Mrs.  Daryl,  promptly.  "  I  think  in  the  meantime 
— Ah!  what  room  is  this  ?" 

Margery  had  led  the  way  into  the  drawing-room. 

"A  charming  room,"  declares  the  new-comer,  briskly, 
with  a  swift  but  comprehensive  glance  round  her.  "  But 
what  ghastly  furniture  !  We  must  turn  it  all  out  of  doors 
or  else  relegate  it  to  the  garrets,  and  get  something  light 
— aesthetic — satisfying — eh?"  with  an  airy  wave  of  her 
hand.  Indeed  all  her  ways  seem  to  be  specially  airy. 

"That's  the  prelude  to  turning  us  out  of  doors,"  whispers 
Meg,  gloomily,  into  Angelica's  ear.  "Well,  nothing  like 
knowing  the  worst  at  once  !  " 

"What's  outside?"  asks  Mrs.  Daryl,  pushing  wide  a 
window-curtain  and  gazing  into  the  still  darkness  of  the 
spring  night. 

"The  garden." 

"  Ah  !  I  wish  I  could  see  that ! "  cries  she,  eagerly.  She 
seems  thoroughly  untiring  and  full  of  vivacity.  "  Is  it  too 
dark,  Billy?" 

"  Much  too  dark,  and  too  chilly,  besides,"  returns  he. 

"How  careful  he  is  of  her!"  says  Peter,  in  a  moody 
aside.  "  Seems  to  me  she's  as  strong  as  a — 

He  is  evidently  on  the  point  of  saying  "a  horse,"  but 
some  innate  breeding  forbids  him. 

"  So  she  is,"  whispers  Margery,  back,  who,  perhaps, 
understands  him.  And,  indeed,  there  is  something  sug- 
gestive of  strong  and  perfect  health  in  Mrs.  Daryl's  small, 
elastic  frame,  and  fair  face  and  eager  eyes. 

"It  is  rather  late  for  the  children  to  be  up,"  says  Mar- 
gery, addressing  her  new  sister.  "  I  think  I  will  take  them 
away  now,  and  give  them  their  tea.  Billy  can  show  you 
everything."  With  a  faint  smile. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  21 

"  Of  course.  If  they  want  to  go,"  says  Mrs.  Billy  cheer- 
fully. "  But  perhaps  they'd  like  a  holiday  from  their  beds 
in  honor  of  me.  Would  you,  mites  ?  " 

But  the  mites  are  too  impressed  by  the  solemnity  of  the 
occasion  to  do  aught  but  hang  their  heads  and  behave 
abominably. 

("Just  like  ill-bred  little  brats,"  declares  Margery  after- 
ward, with  an  access  of  wrath  that  descends  upon  the 
luckless  twins.) 

"  Ah !  well,  no  doubt  they  are  tired,"  says  Mrs.  Billy 
genially,  and  so  Margery  carries  off  the  disgraced  babies 
to  their  tea  in  the  school-room,  where  they  are  speedily 
joined  by  Angelica,  Dick,  and  Peter. 

"  What  idiot  said  brides  were  shy  ?  "  demands  Dick,  pres- 
ently. "  Of  all  the  effrontery,  the  coolness,  the — 

"She  is  just  what  I  said  she  would  be." 

"She  isn't  in  the  least  what /thought  she  would  be," 
says  Margery,  "she — she's  worse.  Did  you  hear  her  re- 
mark about  the  hall  ?" 

"And  about  the  furniture?" 

"I  suppose  she'll  give  us  a  week's  grace,"  says  Peter 
thoughtfully.  "  And  then — where  are  we  to  go  ?" 

"  Ah  !  you  are  here,  then  ? "  cries  a  gay  voice.  The  door 
is  pushed  open  and  Mrs.  Daryl  enters  as  though  certain  of 
a  welcome.  "They  told  me  I  should  find  you  in  this 
room,"  continues  she,  entering  as  composedly  as  though 
she  had  been  an  inmate  of  the  house  all  her  life. 

"This  is  a  very  uncomfortable  place  for  you,"  declares 
Margery,  rising  pale  and  unsmiling  from  behind  the  tea- 
pot. "  Let  me  take  you  to  the  library.  I  have  ordered 
tea  to  be  served  there  for  you  and  Billy." 

"That's  tea  down  there  isn't  it?"  nodding  her  head  at 
the  elderly  teapot  so  well-known  to  the  twins. 

"Yes — but  in  the  library " 

"  I  know.  I've  been  there.  And  very  cosey  it  looked, 
but  not  so  cosey  as  this.  I  think  old  school-rooms  the  best 
bits  of  a  house,  don't  you  ?  And  I  should  like  some  of 
your  tea,  and  so  would  Billy." 

"  She's  evidently  determined  we  shan't  have  even  this 
poor  room  to  ourselves,"  mutters  Dick,  indignantly.  "All 

or  none  is  her  motto.  Anvthing  so  indecent !  All 

this  pretence  at  bonhommie  is  a  mere  dodge  to  prove  to  us 
that  she  is  mistress  of  everything.  That  all  the  rooms 
belong  to  her." 

"Well  so  they  do — so  they- do  !  "  returns  Angelica  with  a 


22  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

fine  justice.  Then  her  feelings  grow  too  much  for  her. 
"  But  of  all  the  mean  actions —  •"  she  says,  tears  rising  to 
her  dove-like  eyes. 

"There  were  hot  cakes  in  the  library,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl, 
who  has  seated  herself  at  the  table,  and  is  plainly -waiting 
for  her  tea.  "Couldn't  we  have  them  in  here.  I'm  cer- 
tain the  children  would  like  them.  Eh  ? "  She  pulls  May 
toward  her.  Fat  little  May  is  not  proof  against  this  prom- 
ising offer. 

"  I  should,"  she  says,  shyly.  She  is  staring  at  Mrs.  Billy 
with  her  finger  in  her  mouth,  so  does  not  see  the  concen- 
trated glances  of  wrath  showered  upon  her  by  the  entire 
family. 

"Good  child  !"  laughs  Mrs.  Daryl. 

At  this  moment  Billy  crosses  the  threshold. 

"  Billy,  this  little  sister  wants  the  hot  cakes  in  the  lib- 
rary," says  his  wife,  looking  up  at  him.  And  after  half  an 
hour  or  so  Blanche  and  May  are  at  last  dismissed  for  the 
night  with  as  many  scones  on  their  conscience  as  size  will 
permit. 

The  new-comers  follow  them  very  shortly — Mrs.  Daryl 
having  at  last  confessed  to  a  slight  sense  of  fatigue.  She 
bids  them  all  good-night  in  an  airy  cheery  fashion,  and 
leaves  the  room,  in  spite  of  the  tired  sensation  to  which 
she  has  acknowledged,  in  a  breezy  energetic  fashion,  sug- 
gestive of  a  mind  that  governs  the  slight  body  and  is  not 
easily  to  be  subdued. 

As  she  goes  the  storm  bursts. 

"Well!"  says  Peter,  when  the  last  sound  of  their  foot- 
steps has  ceased  upon  the  air,  "well!  I  never !"  He  might 
have  said  more.  He  could  never  have  said  anything  that 
conveys  so  expressively  to  his  listeners  the  real  state  of 
his  feelings. 

"  It  isn't  well.  It  is  ill,"  retorts  Margery.  "  I — it  is  dis- 
graceful. She  is  determined  to  sit  upon  us." 

"  She'll  have  something  to  do  then,  that's  one  comfort," 
exclaims  Angelica  hysterically.  "  And  she  can't  do  it  all 
at  once  either,  there's  such  a  lot  of  us." 

"Don't  be  a  fool !  "  says  Peter,  who  is  in  no  humor  for 
jokes. 

"  Peter,  don't  be  rude  to  Angelica,"  interposes  Margery, 
indignantly,  whose  nerves  are  by  this  time  so  highly  strung 
that  she  feels  it  a  necessity  to  quarrel  with  somebody. 

"  Who's  rude  ?  "  demands  Peter.  "  I  only  advised  her 
very  gently  not  to  jest  on  solemn  subjects." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  23 

"  Very  gently.     You  told  her  not  to  be  a  fool." 

"  Well !  Would  you  have  me  to  tell  her  to  be  a  fool  ? 
You're  all  fools  together,  it  strikes  me.  There  isn't  a 
grain  of  sense  in  any  girl  born." 

"I  say,  look  here!  Have  it  out  to-morrow,  you  two," 
cries  Dick,  "but  let  us  discuss  the  new  Madam  now,  as 
she  no  doubt  is  discussing  us  at  this  moment." 

"That  is,  most  unfavorably." 

"  She  is  no  doubt  abusing  us  like  a  pick-pocket,"  mut- 
ters Peter,  dejectedly. 

"She  is  arranging  with  Billy  for  our  immediate  dismis- 
sal, without  a  character,  having  paid  all  wages  due." 

"  Perhaps  after  all  we  weren't  very  nice  to  her,"  says 
Angelica,  doubtfully. 

"  What's  the  good  of  being  nice  ?  In  books  they  always 
do  the  correct  thing  at  first,  and  get  kicked  out  afterward 
for  their  pains.  I've  read  a  lot  about  people  in  law.  We 
have  done  the  incorrect  thing,  and  we  shall  be  kicked  out 
too,  but  we  shall  carry  our  self-respect  with  us." 

"That's  about  all,"  puts  in  Dick,  grimly. 

"  She  is — didn't  anyone  think  her  eyes  lovely  ?  "  hazards 
Angelica.  "And  her  hands  very  small  ?  Small  as  Muri- 
el's?" 

"  No  one,"  declares  Margery,  shortly.  "  Come,  let  us 
go  to  bed  and  forget  our  misfortunes  for  a  time  if  we 
can." 

Meantime  another  scene  is  taking  place  in  the  room 
over  their  heads. 

"  After  all,  Billy,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl  with  a  jolly,  little 
laugh  as  she  closes  the  bedroom  door,  firmly  behind  her, 
"  you  were  wrong.  They  didn't  fall  in  love  with  me  at 
first  sight.  You  are  a  false  prophet." 

"  They — they  were  a  little  queer,  eh  ? "  returns  Billy, 
thoughtfully.  "  I  noticed  it.  But  you  mustn't  mind  that, 
you  know.  It'll  wear  off,  and— and  when  they  come  to 
know  you  and  understand  you,  there  won't  be  a  difficulty 
anywhere." 

"  It  is  natural,  I  suppose,"  muses  Mrs.  Daryl,  gravely. 
"  They  must  look  upon  me  as  a  female  Jacob.  A  sup- 
planter,  a  usurper." 

"  They  mustn't  be  allowed  to  harbor  that  thought,"  says 
her  husband,  turning  quickly  toward  her,  "you  are  mis- 
tress here.  The  house  is  yours." 

Some  sudden  remembrance  checks  him  here,  and  drives 


24  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

the  color  to  his  cheek.  "  A  barren  possession,"  lie  says, 
laying  his  kindly,  brown  hand  on  hers,  "  I  wish  there  was 
something  in  it  worth  your  acceptance." 

"  It  seems  to  me  there  is  a  good  deal  in  it."  A  second 
little  laugh  breaks  from  her. 

Daryl  looks  at  her  anxiously. 

"  Too  much  you  think,  perhaps  ?"  he  says,  a  quick  shade 
falling  into  his  eyes. 

For  just  the  moment  it  takes  her  to  read  his  thoughts 
she  does  not  answer  him  ;  then, 

"  So  that  is  what  you  are  thinking  !  "  she  decides  at  last. 
11  Have  I  deserved  it,  Billy  ?  I  tell  you,  you  are  wrong — 
all  wrong.  The  very  spirit  they  displayed  warmed  my 
heart  to  them  as  no  silly  untried  tenderness  would  have 
done.  Had  they  thrown  themselves  into  rny  arms,  and 
affected  a  sudden  love  for  me,  I  should  have  been  trouble- 
some, perhaps,"  with  a  little  grimace;  "but  now!  Why 
they  seem  to  be  real  grit  all  through,  and  I'll  stand  to 
them  for  it,  and  make  them  like  me,  before  I'm  done  with 
them." 

"That's  my  dear  girl,"  says  Mr.  Daryl. 

"  How  they  withdrew  from  me  !  Did  you  notice  that 
boy  with  the  big  eyes?  How  distrustfully  he  let  them  rest 
on  me  ?  I  shall  take  him  for  a  ride  to-morrow,  and  bring 
him  home  my  slave." 

"  They  will  all  be  your  slaves  in  a  month  or  so." 

"  A  month  !  "  Mrs.  Billy  gazes  at  him  earnestly  as  one 
might  who  is  filled  witli  surprise.  "  How  you  underrate 
my  abilities,"  she  says  at  last  gayly.  "  Be  warned  in  time. 
Before  to-morrow  night  I  shall  be  not  only  tolerated,  but 
warmly  accepted  by  every  member  of  this  household  !  " 


CHAPTER   III. 

"  The  drying  up  a  single  tear  has  more 

Of  honest  fame,  than  shedding  tears  of  gore." 

SHE  was  as  good  as  her  word.  By  the  next  evening  they 
have  all  learned  to  smile  upon  her,  by  the  end  of  the  third 
week  they  have  all  learned  to  positively  court  her  society, 
which  is  fresh  to  the  last  degree.  Yet  still  they  are  a  little 
awkward  with  her,  and  a  little  uncertain  as  to  her  ulterior 
designs  for  their  welfare. 

As  for  Mrs.  Billy,  she  is  very  well-pleased  with  herself 


LADY  BRANTKSMERE,  25 

so  far,  and  with  her  growing  relations  with  them,  and  hav- 
ing no  special  designs  in  view,  does  not  trouble  herself  to 
invent  any. 

One  day,  toward  the  end  of  this  first  eventful  three 
weeks,  she  walks  into  the  school-room  rather  aimlessly,  to 
find  Margery  there  and  the  children. 

"  You  here,  Margery  ?  Why,  what  are  you  doing  ? " 
asks  she.  She  is  dressed  in  a  pretty  white  gown  of  some 
soft,  warm  material,  the  days  being  still  a  little  chilly,  and 
is  looking  cool,  and  fresh,  and  radiant.  Margery,  on  the 
contrary,  has  a  rather  crushed  appearance,  and  is  distinctly 
warm  and  openly  miserable. 

"Teaching  the  children,"  she  answered  shortly. 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.  Daryl,  surveying  the  hot  cheeks  of  the 
three  with  evident  surprise.  Blanche,  it  appears  to  her,  is 
full  of  tears  ;  May  just  bereft  of  them  ;  Margery  herself 
seems  on  the  very  brink  of  them. 

"What  on  earth  are  you  doing  it  for  ? "  asks  Mrs.  Daryl 
slowly. 

"  Because,  however  poor  they  may  be,  they  must  not 
grow  up  altogether  savages,"  returns  Margery  with  some 
sharpness.  Her  irritation  has  not  arisen  out  of  the  pres- 
ence of  her  sister-in-law,  but  is  rather  due  to  an  extreme 
exhaustion  born  of  a  long  and  fruitless  argument  with  the 
twins,  who  have  obstinately  declined  to  take  to  heart  the 
fact  that  twelve  and  nine  make  twenty-one.  Perhaps  Mrs. 
Daryl  grasps  the  truth  of  the  situation,  because  the  amia- 
bility of  her  demeanor  is  undiminished  as  she  sinks  into  a 
chair  by  the  table  and  settles  herself,  Parisian  robe  and 
all,  to  business. 

"  Here  !     Give  one  of  them  to  me,"  she  says,  briskly. 

"  To  teach  ? "  asks  Meg,  aghast. 

"  To  try  and  knock  something  into  her  brain.  It's  the 
same  thing,  eh  ?  But  to  judge  by  you  I  should  say  it  was 
no  mean  task.  Give  me  Blanche.  I  expect  she  knows 
considerably  more  than  I  do,  but  with  the  help  of  a  book 
I'll  go  in  and  win." 

"  Oh,  no  !  Indeed  you  mustn't.  You  haven't  an  idea 
what  a  worry  it  is.  Billy  won't  like  you  to  do  it,"  says 
Margery,  anxiously. 

"  Billy  always  likes  just  what  I  like." 

"You  will  hate  it." 

"If  I  do  I'll  stop,"  says  Mrs.  Billy  imperturbably.  And, 
Margery  conquered,  passes  her  over  Blanche,  and  once 
more  returns  to  the  disturbed  argument  with  May. 


26  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

Five,  ten,  twenty  minutes  go  by,  with  only  a  dismal  sob 
or  two,  and  a  dull  monotone,  or  perhaps  a  dismal  blowing 
of  the  nose  to  break  their  deep  serenity.  Then  suddenly, 
all  at  once,  as  it  were,  an  awful  disturbance  takes  place. 
Mrs.  Billy  has,  without  a  moment's  warning,  flung  her 
book  into  the  fireplace,  and  has  risen  impetuously  to  her 
feet.  Her  fine  eyes  are  flashing,  her  cheeks  crimson. 

"  She  ought  to  be  killed — that  child  !  "  she  cries,  point- 
ing to  the  terrified  May.  "  She  ought  to  be  exterminated 
before  the  world  is  made  aware  of  her.  She  has  no  more 
brains  than  a — a  fly." 

"May!"  exclaims  Margery,  glancing  reproachfully  at 
the  trembling  culprit.  Then  some  inward  force  compels 
her  to  defend  the  little  sister  who  is  staring  at  her  implor- 
ingly with  quivering  lips.  "  Usually  she  is  a  very  good 
child,"  she  says,  holding  out  her  hand  to  May. 

"  Good.  Good  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Daryl,  indignantly.  "  Then 
tell  me,  will  you,  why  it  is  she  will  persist  in  bounding 
Europe  on  the  north  by  the  Mediterranean  Sea  ?  I  warn 
you  she  is  dangerous.  She  would  turn  the  world  upside 
down  ! " 

Then  in  a  moment  the  anger  vanishes,  and  she  lifts  her 
hands  to  her  head,  and  breaks  into  a  "fit  of  the  gayest,  the 
most  uncontrollable  laughter. 

"  I  wonder  when  I  was  in  a  passion  before,"  she  says. 
"  How  it  relieves  one.  The  worst  of  it  is  it  doesn't  last 
long  enough  with  me  ;  I  don't  get  the  good  out  of  it.  It 
evaporates  before  I'm  done  with  it.  Say,  children,  wouldn't 
you  like  a  run  ?  It's  a  most  blessed  afternoon.  It's  a 
positive  sin  to  be  indoors,  I  think.  And  as  for  Europe,  I 
don't  quite  see  that  I  -should  cry  over  it,  even  if  the  Med- 
iterranean did  sit  on  its  head." 

11 1  suppose  they  ought  to  get  through  the  lessons  they 
have  prepared,"  begins  Margery,  doubtfully. 

"So  they  have  ;  every  one  of  them,  because  they  haven't 
prepared  any.  And  from  this  hour  out  I  fancy  I  know 
what  we'll  do.  Our  tempers  wouldn't  last  through  much 
of  this  sort  of  thing — "  rapping  the  lesson  books — "  so 
we'll  just  pay  some  poor  soul  to  lose  her  temper  for  us." 

"  You  mean " 

"  I  mean  a  governess." 

"  You  must  not  think  of  that,"  cries  Margery,  coloring 
hotly.  "  We  must  not  put  you  to  that  expense.  My  time 
is  my  own  ;  I  have  literally  nothing  to  do." 

"  Quite  as  it  should  be  with  a  pretty  girl,"  interrupts 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  27 

Mrs.  Daryl,  quickly.  "  Ah  !  experience  has  taught  me 
that." 

"  With  so  much  time  on  my  hands  ?  "  persists  Margery. 
"  I  feel  I  can  do  nothing  better  than  teach  the  children, 
and " 

"  Learn  to  curse  fate,"  interposes  Mrs.  Daryl,  with  her 
merry  laugh.  "  Not  a  bit  of  it !  Not  while  I'm  here  !  A 
governess  it  shall  be,  and  the  children,  believe  me,  will 
learn  as  much  from  her  in  one  month  as  they  do  from  you 
in  six.  We'll  get  an  old  maid,  and  make  her  very  comfort- 
able, poor  thing  !  " 

"  But " 

"  Not  a  word.  Do  you  think  I  could  sit  still,  or  go  out 
riding,  and  know  you  were  ruining  your  constitution  with 
such  scenes  as  I  have  just  gone  through  ?  Tut !  What 
do  you  take  me  for  ?  Come,"  changing  her  tone  again  as  if 
the  subject  is  over  and  done  with  forever,  "  I  want  you  to 
show  me  the  rooms  in  the  west  wing.  They  are  all  out  of 
order  Billy  says  ;  but  that's  what  I  like,  it  gives  one  scope 
for  one's  imagination.  It  permits  one  to  give  the  reins  to 
one's  own  taste  in  the  matter  of  paints  and  gimcracks. 
Come ! " 

She  slips  her  arm  through  Margery's,  and  the  girl  goes 
with  her  a  step  or  two.  There  is  indeed  no  gainsaying 
her.  Then  all  at  once  Margery  stops  as  if  to  argue  the 
point  anew,  and  Mrs.  Daryl,  glancing  at  her,  sees  that  her 
eyes  are  full  of  unshed  tears. 

"  Too  much  geography,  grammar,  and  sums,  and  far  too 
much  gratitude,"  thinks  she,  swiftly. 

"  Pondering  on  the  children  still  ? "  she  says,  smiling. 
Then  she  glances  back  over  her  shoulder  at  the  twins,  who 
are  sitting  disconsolately  in  their  seats,  chilled  by  the  con- 
sciousness of  having  signally  disgraced  themselves  in  the 
late  encounter. 

"  Get  on  your  feet,  you  two,"  she  commands,  gayly, 
"  and  pick  me  a  bunch  of  daffodils  for  my  room.  And  I'll 
tell  you  what,"  beckoning  them  closer  to  her.  "  From  this 
day  you  shall  have  a  whole  month  of  pure  and  lovely  idle- 
ness while  I  look  north  and  south  and  east  and  west  for  the 
dragon  I'm  preparing  for  you." 

She  laughs  so  pleasantly  at  this  threat  that  the  twins 
catch  the  infection  of  her  mirth,  and  laugh  too,  and  are 
indeed  so  delighted  with  her  and  the  promised  emancipa- 
tion from  the  hated  studies  that  their  equanimity  is  quite 
restored.  Can  she,  does  she  mean  it  ?  A  month,  mind 


28  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

you.  A  whole  long  splendid  month  of  delicious  idleness, 
with  nothing  on  earth  to  do  but  to  hunt  at  will  the  wily 
butterfly  !  Oh  !  what  an  angel  in  disguise  their  enemy  has 
become. 

They  rise  from  their  seats.  Simultaneously,  involuntar- 
ily, they  clasp  hands.  They  draw  near. 

"  Is  it  true,"  cry  they  in  one  breath. 

''As  true  as  that  you  are  both  the  very  prettiest  pair  of 
dunces ! " 

Mrs.  Billy,  having  given  voice  to  this  medicated  assur- 
ance, draws  back,  and,  providentially  in  time,  supports 
herself  against  the  ancient  bookcase  that  for  generations 
has  shown  itself  proof  against  the  severest  onslaughts. 
This  enables  her  to  receive  the  shock  of  two  small  bodies 
flung  convulsively  and  without  warning  upon  her  breast, 
with  at  least  a  show  of  valor. 

"  Oh  !  "  gasps  May,  hysterically,  clinging  to  her,  "  wasn't 
it  a  good  thing  for  us  that  you  married  Billy." 

"  Flight,  however  ignominious,  means  life  ! "  gasps  Mrs. 
Billy,  "  so  here  goes  !  " 

She  tears  herself  away  from  the  grateful  twins,  seizes 
Margery's  wrist,  and  with  her  escapes  into  the  cooler  hall 
outside. 

"  Now  come  and  show  me  the  uninhabited  parts,  the 
rooms  where  the  ghosts  walk,"  she  says  gayly,  springing 
up  the  beautiful  old  staircase  two  steps  at  a  time. 

"  Only  there  isn't  anything  so  decent  as  a  spirit,"  returns 
Margery,  following  her,  swiftly.  "A  sell,  isn't  it?  It  is 
just  the  sort  of  rambling  old  tenement  that  should  possess 
a  gentleman  with  his  head  tucked  well  beneath  his  arms. 
But,  alas,  he  has  never  turned  up.  Mean  of  him,  I  call  it." 

In  truth,  it  is  a  very  picturesque  old  mansion,  though 
sadly  out  of  repair,  with  a  queer,  dusky  hall  of  huge  di- 
mensions. A  hall  full  of  ancient  cupboards  and  a  big  fire- 
place where  the  traditionary  ox  might  have  been  roasted 
whole — almost.  The  mantel-piece  rises  to  the  very  ceiling, 
which  is  vaulted,  and  both  are  so  black  with  age  that  it  is 
impossible  at  a  first  glance  to  pick  out  and  piece  together 
properly  the  carvings  on  the  former. 

Doors  lead  off  this  hall  to  right  and  left,  and  two  long 
corridors  shrouded  by  moth-eaten  curtains  are  dimly  sug- 
gested. Mrs.  Billy  is  openly  pleased  with  everything. 
Standing  on  the  top  of  the  quaint  staircase,  as  broad  as  it 
is  shallow  in  steps,  she  looks  down  into  the  gloom  beneath 
her,  and  seems  enraptured. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  29 

"  It  only  wants  a  word  here,  a  touch  there,"  she  mur- 
murs, casting  a  glance  full  of  artistic  appreciation  around. 
"  A  prince  might  be  proud  of  such  a  hall  as  that." 

"It  wants  considerably  more  than  a  touch,"  says  Mar- 
gery, who  after  all  is  accustomed  to  the  beauty  of  it,  and 
is  not  carried  away  by  its  charm.  To  her,  the  chairs,  the 
antlers,  the  tables  are  only  so  much  lumber  ;  and,  indeed, 
the  entire  furniture  throughout  the  house  is  old,  not  to 
say  crumbly. 

"  Well,  it  shall  have  it,"  answers  Mrs.  Daryl.  "  It  is 
worthy  of  all  care  and  consideration."  She  turns,  and  they 
continue  their  way,  peering  into  this  room,  peeping  into 
that,  to  find  them  all  dilapidated  and  shorn  of  decorations 
of  all  sorts,  the  finances  of  the  two  last  generations  having 
been  found  very  insufficient  when  applied  to  the  keeping 
up  of  so  large  a  house.  The  Daryis  for  the  past  two  cen- 
turies had  apparently  taken  for  their  motto,  "  Love  and 
the  world  well  lost,"  their  beautiful  wives  bringing  noth- 
ing but  their  fair  faces  and  a  stainless  ancestry  to  the 
empty  coffers  of  their  husbands.  It  had  not  been  Billy's 
fault  that  he  had  been  false  to  the  creed  of  his  ancestors. 
He  had  loved,  and  had  wooed  and  won  his  sweetheart 
when  she  was  without  a  penny  in  the  world  ;  and  does 
not,  because  he  could  not,  love  her  a  whit  the  more  to- 
day in  that  she  is  an  heiress  to  a  rather  fabulous  extent. 

"  Take  care,"  cries  Margery,  suddenly,  "  a  step  leads 
down  into  this  room.  It  takes  one  unawares  as  a  rule. 
But  I  want  you  to  see  this  room  of  all  others.  The  view 
from  it  is  so  perfect,  and  the  windows  so  quaint." 

"  Oh  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Billy  as  she  steps  into  it,  with  an  ad- 
miration in  her  tone  that  leaves  nothing  to  be  desired. 
"  What  a  jolly  little  room."  She  looks  round  her. 
"  Quite  a  mediaeval  little  affair.  It  is  a  trifle  too  much  for 
me  I  confess,  but  you  " — glancing  at  Margery  kindly — 
"  you  like  it,  eh  ?  " 

"Like  it  !  It  is  an  ideal  thing — a  rugged  poem  !"  cries 
Margery.  Then  she  checks  herself,  and  looks  in  a  puzzled 
way  at  her  sister-in-law.  "  You  who  have  such  a  fine 
appreciation  of  the  really  good,  why  do  you  disparage  it  ?" 
she  asks,  slowly.  "  I  thought  of  it  all  last  night  as  a  thing 
just  suited  for  you,  as  a  retirement — a  retreat — a  pet  place 
to  receive  your  favorites.  It  was  a  matter  of  covetousness 
to  myself  many  a  time,  but  you  see  it  would  be  thrown 
away  without  its  suitable  adornments.  Everything  should 
be  of  its  own  time." 


3o  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Except  its  mistress,"  interrupts  Mrs.  Daryl,  with  a 
light  laugh.  "  That's  the  flaw  in  the  present  aesthetic  run 
of  thought.  We  can't  produce  a  real  chatelaine.  We 
can't  bring  back  a  dame,  severely  Saxon,  artistically  pure, 
from  the  nauseous  grave.  And  all  the  high  art  gowns  in 
the  world  don't  seem  to  me  to  do  it.  One  can  see  the 
nineteenth  century  training  all  through  the  puffs  and  wigs, 
and  pensive  poses." 

"  You  are  a  sceptic,"  says  Margery,  laughing. 

"  A  Philistine,  you  mean.  In  some  ways,  yes.  Exag- 
geration, don't  you  see,  is  odious  to  me."  Here  she 
laughs  gayly  in  unison  with  her  companion.  "  Tell  you 
what,  Meg,"  she  says,  "  this  room  shall  be  yours.  I'll 
have  it  done  up  for  you,  and  you  shall  choose  every  stick 
for  yourself.  You  are  Miss  Daryl  you  see,  and  proper  re- 
spect must  be  shown  you.  The  school-room  will  do  for 
the  children  well  enough.  It  is  comfortable,  and  there  is 
something  quaint  about  the  tables  and  chairs,  and  the 
very  inkstains  of  it.  But  the  boys,  I  think,  should  have  a 
den  of  their  own.  Of  their  very  own,  eh  ?  A  sort  of  a 
snuggery  where  they  might  knock  around  at  will,  and  no 
one  have  the  right  to  scold  them  for  untidiness,  eh  ?  " 

There  is  something  remarkably  cheery  in  the  way  she 
has  of  saying  that  frequent  "  eh  "  ?  Some  thought  grow- 
ing within  the  mind  of  Margery  renders  her  dumb. 

"  Well  ?  Why  don't  you  speak,  eh  ?  And  why  do  you 
look  at  me  like  that  ?  with  such  solemn  eyes  ?" 

"  I  was  just  thinking,"  the  words  coming  from  her 
slowly,  "  that  there  are  few  women  who  could  have  come 
as  mistress-  to  a  strange  house  and  have  adopted  an  un- 
conscionable number  of  useless  people  in  the  sweet  spirit 
that  you  have  done  ! — Why  what  are  we  to  you  ? "  cries 
the  girl,  coming  more  into  the  sunlight  and  spreading  out 
her  hands  as  if  in  protest.  "  An  encumbrance,  a  worry, 
beings  of  no  moment  at  all  in  the  life  that  is  just  begin- 
ning for  you.  Yet  it  seems  as  though  you  had  made  up 
your  mind  to  us — to 

"  Look  here !  If  you  only  knew !'"  interposes  Mrs. 
Billy. 

She  seats  herself  with  very  rash  promptness  upon  a 
moth-devoured  seat  in  one  of  the  windows,  and  pulls  the 
girl  dowrn  beside  her.  There  is  a  secret  nobility  about 
this  seat  in  that  though  it  totters  to  its  fall,  it  makes  one 
last  effort  and  manages  to  keep  erect  for  still  another  half- 
hour.  How  could  it  upset  so  charming  a  cargo  ? 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  31 

V  Don't  you  get  it  into  your  silly  old  noddle,"  says  Mrs. 
Billy,  who  takes  no  thought  for  her  language,  "that  I'm 
making  sacrifices  for  my  husband's  people,  or  anything  of 
that  sort.  It  would  be  a  downright  fraud  if  you  brought 
your  mind  to  that.  I'm  delighted,  glad,  thankful  to  have 
you  all  here.  Taken  that  in,  eh  ?  Delighted — see  ?  I 
have  been  so  long  left  alone,  with  only  two  old  frowzy 
people  to  stare  at  day  after  day — fossils  who  were  always 
on  the  very  brink  of  the  grave,  but  who  wouldn't  go  into 
it — that  the  sound  of  the  laughter  that  comes  from  all  you 
girls  and  boys  is,  I  consider,  grand  :  the  very  sweetest 
music.  Taken  all  that  in  ?  Why,  that's  right." 

"  But — to  be  never  alone  with  Billy " 

"  There  isn't  a  '  but '  in  the  whole  of  it.  I  defy  you  to 
find  one,  my  good  child,"  interrupts  this  energetic  young 
woman,  promptly.  "  If  you  think  I'm  the  sort  to  be  mis- 
erable unless  my  husband  is  in  my  sight  all  day,  or  I  in 
his,  you've  made  a  mistake,  that's  all.  I'm  not  of  the 
sickly  sentimental  order  by  any  means.  Yet,"  glancing 
swiftly  at  Margery,  "you  know  that  I  love  Billy  with  all 
my  heart  and  soul,  eh  ? " 

"Yes,"  gravely.      "I  know  it." 

"  I  should,  you  know.  He  rescued  me  from  a  very 
slough  of  despond.  He  was  the  first  bright  thing  I  had 
come  in  contact  with.  I  can  tell  you  I  rubbed  myself 
against  him  vigorously,  and  sparks  was  the  result !  He 
was  charming  to  me,  he  treated  me  as  though  I  were  really 
a  young  girl,  and  not  a  mere  beast  of  burden — a  sort  of 
superior  upper  servant — a  being  a  degree  better  than 
Martha  in  that  I  did  not  misplace  my  h's,  and  could  sit  in 
a  drawing-room  without  looking  awkward.  He  came.  He 
loved  me  ;  poor,  dependent,  as  I  was.  And  he  is  one  of 
you  !  Do  I  not  owe  you  love  for  his  love  ?  " 

"Your  life  was  miserable?"  asks  Margery,  bending 
eagerly  toward  her. 

"  Monotony  is  the  worst  of  all  miseries  to  some  natures. 
They  were  not  absolutely  unkind,  but  I  felt  'cribb'd,  cabin'd, 
and  confin'd  '  every  moment  of  my  day.  Oh  !  the  horrible 
readings  aloud  to  that  old  man  until  my  throat  was  sore  ! 
the  eternal  windings  of  that  old  woman's  skeins  !  I  wonder 
I  never  gave  way  to  my  inner  promptings — that  I  abstained 
from  murder  or  suicide  ;  I  was  alriost  at  the  end  of  my 
patience  I  can  tell  you  when  Billy  came  upon  the  scene. 
Well,  you  know  all  that.  And  he  loved  me  at  once,  some- 
how ;  all  in  a  moment  as  it  were — just  as  I  loved  him." 


32  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"That  is  the  true  way." 

"Yes — isn't  it?  What  a  nice  girl  you  are,  Margery! — • 
And  I  hadn't  a  single  halfpenny  then,  so  he  must  have 
meant  all  he  said,  eh  ?  I  like  to  dwell  on  that ;  it  makes 
me  feel  right  down  proud,  somehow  ;  but  you  mustn't 
mind  me.  Then  the  old  General  died,  and  somebody 
found  out  I  was  his  nearest  of  skin — kin — what  is  it  ?  And 
all  at  once  I  became  not  only  an  heiress,  but  an  enormous 
one." 

"  Not  so  very  enormous,"  says  Meg,  smiling  and  pointing 
meaningly  to  the  little  rounded  thing  talking  so  fluently. 

"Eh  ?  oh,  no!  Of  course  not  in  that  way.  But  it  was 
all  like  a  fairy  tale,  wasn't  it,  now  ?  The  night  it  was 
finally  settled  and  my  claim  to  the  money  established  be- 
yond a  doubt,  I  laughed  in  my  bed  I  can  tell  you  when  I 
thought  of  how  comfortable  I  could  make  my  Billy." 

"Then?" 

"  Then  we  got  married.  I  quitted  forever  the  shade.  I 
rushed  headlong  into  the  sunshine.  Billy  and  I  dawdled 
about  a  good  deal  in  Paris  and  Brussels,  but  the  first 
glimpse  of  home  I  had  ever  had  in  all  my  life  was  on  the 
night  I  arrived  here."  Involuntarily,  at  this,  Margery 
winces,  but  evidently  there  is  no  arriere  pense"e  in  Mrs. 
Billy's  conversation.  "  You  all  met  me.  You  are,  there- 
fore, bound  up  in  my  first  impression  of  what  home  means. 
You  were  a  continuation  of  the  sunshine  that  had  come  to 
me  with  Billy.  This  old  house,  all  of  you,  everything, 
seems  blended  into  one  sweet  satisfactory  whole.  I 
couldn't  bear  to  be  in  an  empty  house.  To  confess  a  truth 
to  you,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl,  bending  forward,  "  I  love  noise  ! 
Taken  all  that  to  heart  ? " 

"  Yes,  all,"  replies  Margery,  earnestly. 

"Then  it  only  remains  for  you  to  take  me  there,  too  !  " 
says  Mrs.  Billy,  smiling.  Margery,  driven  to  a  sudden  im- 
pulse, turns  to  her  and  flings  her  arms  round  her. 


CHAPTER   IV. 

"  Oh  !  them  hast  set  my  busy  brain  at  work 
And  now  she  musters  up  a  train  of  images, 
Which,  to  preserve  my  peace,  I'd  cast  aside 
And  sink  in  deep  oblivion." 

THERE  is  a  silence,  that  lasts  for  quite  a  minute,  then,  "I 
love  you,"  says  Margery,  simply,  a  little  tremor  in  her 
voice. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  33 

"  That's  all  right.  Quite  right.  That  is  just  as  it  should 
be,"  sweetly.  "And  now  we  are  real  sisters,  without  any 
law  about  it." 

"And  we — we  thought  we  should  have  to  leave  the 
Manor,"  begins  Margery,  a  little  guilty,  full  confession  on 
the  tip  of  her  tongue,  but  Mrs.  Billy  will  not  listen. 

" Rubbish,"  she  cries  gayly  ;  "as  if  this  dear  old  shed 
isn't  big  enough  to  hold  a  garrison  !  Why,  if  we  do  come 
to  loggerheads  or  a  pitched  battle,  there's  plenty  of  room 
here  in  which  to  fight  it  out  ;  that's  one  comfort.  Why  so 
serious,  Meg  ? " 

"  I  was  thinking  May's  thoughts.  How  well  it  is  for  us 
that  you  married  Billy  !  "  Her  eyes  are  full  of  tears. 

"  And  doubly  well  for  me.  By-the-bye,  there  is  one  of 
you  I  seem  to  hear  very  little  about — Lady  Branksmere, 
Muriel." 

Margery  getting  up  from  the  crazy  old  seat  goes  some- 
what abruptly  to  the  window. 

"  We  don't  as  a  rule  talk  much  of  each  other,"  she  says, 
after  a  slight  pause. 

"  Well,  do  you  know,  I  think  you  do,  a  considerable  lot 
at  times,"  returns  Mrs.  Billy,  with  quaint  candor.  "  But 
of  her — never !  I  knew  her  marriage  was  a  surprise  to 
you  all,  because  Billy  was  so  taken  aback  by  it  (we  heard 
of  it  when  on  our  tour).  But  why  ?  That  is  what  I  want 
to  know.  Tell  me  about  it." 

"  About  it  ? "  Miss  Daryl  colors  faintly,  hesitates  and 
looks  confused.  "  About  what  ? " 

"Look  here,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  good-naturedly,  "if  it  is 
anything  that  requires  you  to  think  before  answering,  of 
what  will  sound  well,  don't  mind  it  at  all.  I  would  far 
rather  you  didn't  answer  me." 

"Yet  I  should  like  to  speak  to  you  of  her.  It  would  be 
a  relief — a  comfort,"  exclaims  Margery,  eagerly,  "  though, 
indeed,  I  hardly  know  what  it  is  I  want  to  say.  You  are 
one  of  us  now — her  sister  as  much  as  mine — why  then 
should  I  be  silent  about  her.  My  manner,"  impatiently, 
"  is  absurd.  One  would  think  by  it  there  was  some  mystery 
in  the  background  ;  but  in  reality  there  is  nothing." 

"Things  often  look  like  that." 

"  It  was  all  terribly  sudden,  terribly  unexpected.  The 
marriage  with  Branksmere,  I  mean.  She  had  always 
avoided  him,  as  I  thought — had — had,  in  fact" — with  a 
little  rush — "given  us  the  idea  that  she  rather  disliked  him 
than  otherwise,  so  that  when  one  morning  she  came  into 


34  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

the  school-room  and  said  in  her  pretty,  slow,  indifferent 
way,  that  she  was  going  to  marry  him  in  a  month,  we  were 
all  so  thunderstruck  that  I  don't  believe  one  of  us  opened 
our  lips." 

"A  wise  precaution." 

"  I'm  not  so  sure  of  that.  I  doubt  our  silence  offended 
her.  '  Your  congratulations  are  warm,'  she  said,  with  that 
queer  little  laugh  of  hers  you  will  come  to  understand 
in  time.  It  was  cruel  of  us,  but  we  were  all  so  taken 
aback." 

"  It  was  startling,  of  course.  Tell  me,"  stooping  toward 
Margery,  and  speaking  very  clearly,  "  was  the  other  fellow 
desirable  ? " 

"  The— the  other  f 

"Why,  naturally,  my  dear  child.  It  would  be  altogether 
out  of  the  possibilities,  not  to  think  of  him.  When  a 
woman  gets  engaged  and  married,  all  in  one  second,  as  it 
were,  to  a  man  whom  she  appeared  to  dislike  very  cordially, 
the  mind  as  a  rule  is  alive  to  the  knowledge  that  there  is 
another  man  hidden  away  somewhere." 

"I  know  so  little,  I  imagine  so  much,"  says  Margery, 
with  quick  distress,  "  that  I  am  half  afraid  to  speak.  But  I 
always  thought,  until  she  declared  her  engagement  to  Lord 
Branksmere,  that  she  liked  someone — a  great  contrast  to 
Branksmere — who  had  been  staying  down  here  with  some 
friends  of  ours  for  several  months  in  the  autumn.  Whether 
he  and  she  quarrelled,  or  whether  she  threw  him  over,  or 
whether  he  tired,  I  know  nothing." 

"  Pity  I  wasn't  here  just  then.  I'd  have  seen  through  it 
all  in  the  twinkling  of  an  eye,"  declares  Mrs.  Billy,  naively. 

"Muriel  is  difficult,  you  must  understand.  One  cannot 
read  her,  quite.  Yet  I  did  fancy  she  was  in  love  with 
Captain  Staines." 

"  Staines,  Staines  !  " 

"  That  was  his  name.  He  was  staying  with  the  Blounts, 
who  live  two  or  three  miles  from  this.  Know  him  ?" 

"  It  is  quite  a  usual  name,  no  doubt,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl, 
in  a  tone  that  might  almost  suggest  the  idea  that  she  has 
recovered  herself.  "  Yet  it  gave  to  me  a  train  of  thought. 
Know  him  ?  Well — one  can't  be  sure.  Short,  little  man. 
Eh?" 

"  Oh  !  no.     Tall,  very  tall." 

"  Stout  ?  " 

"Meagre,  if  anything.  A  handsome  figure,  I  suppose," 
doubtfully,  "  but  too  much  of  the  hairpin  order  to  suit  me. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  35 

But,  at  all  events,  I  know  he  could  lay  claim  to  be  called 
distinguished-looking." 

"  Most  dark  men  look  distinguished." 

"  He  isn't  dark.     Fair  if  anything." 

"  Fair,  and  tall,  and  slender.  Ah  !  he  can't  be  the  man 
I  mean,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  slowly.  Then  :  "When  do  you 
expect  Lady  Branksmere  home  ? " 

"  To  the  Castle,  you  mean.  I  don't  know.  She  has 
never,  during  all  her  wedding  trip,  written  so  much  as  a 
postcard  to  one  of  us.  Odd,  isn't  it  ?" 

"Suggestive,  at  least." 

"  Of  what  ?     Happiness  ?  " 

"  Let  us  hope  so.  But  what  a  long  time  to  maintain  a 
settled  silence  !  " 

"  Too  long.  She  is  coming  home  ;  we  hear — through 
the  Branksmere  steward." 

"When?" 

"  Any  day — any  hour,  in  fact.  They  have  been  sent 
word  to  have  the  Castle  in  order  to  receive  the  new  Lady 
Branksmere  at  a  moment's  notice." 

"  I  see,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl,  thoughtfully.  She  had  walked 
to  the  window  a  few  minutes  ago,  and  is  now  staring  out 
into  the  shrubberies  that  guard  the  garden  paths.  Pres- 
ently her  gaze  grows  concentrated  upon  one  spot. 

"Margery,  come  here!"  she  says,  in  a  low  tone. 
"Within  the  last  minute  or  two,  I  have  become  aware  that 
there  is  a  strange  man  in  the  garden  !  He  is  gazing  about 
him  in  a  most  suspicious  manner.  What  can  he  want  ? 
See  !  there  he  is.  Ah !  now  you've  lost  him  again.  He 
appears  to  me  to  keep  most  artfully  behind  the  bushes. 
Can  he  be  a  burglar  taking  the  bearings  of  the  house  with 
intent  to  rob  and  murder  us  all  in  our  beds  ? " 

Margery,  coming  nearer,  peers  excitedly  over  her 
shoulder  at  the  suspicious-looking  person  in  question.  As 
she  does  so  her  face  grows  hot.  The  bushes  may  hide  his 
individuality  from  a  stranger,  but  to  her  that  gray  coat, 
those  broad  shoulders,  are  unmistakable  ;  she  gives  way  to 
a  smothered  ejaculation. 

"You  know  him  ?  It  is  true,  then.  He  is  a  person  of 
bad  character  in  the  neighborhood,"  exclaims  Mrs.  Daryl, 
looking  round  at  her. 

"  Oh  !  as  to  that,  no  !  I  don't  think  it  is  a  burglar,"  says 
Margery,  temporizing  disgracefully.  "  It's — it's  nobody, 
in  fact.  I  fancy,  as  well  as  I  can  see,  that  it  is  a  Mr. 
Bellew  ! " 


36  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"All!"  Mrs.  Billy  grows  even  more  thoughtful.  "Mr. 
Bellew  seems  rather  struck  with  the  house.  An  architect, 
perhaps  ? " 

"N-o.  Only  a  neighbor.  A  friend  of  the  boys  in  fact. 
He  comes  here  to  see  them  very  often." 

"That's  kind  of  him,"  says  Mrs.  Billy.  She  laughs  a 
little.  "  One  would  think  it  was  the  house  lie  came  to 
see,"  she  goes  on,  meditatively  ;  "  at  least,  that  portion  of 
it  where  the  school-room  windows  begin.  By  the  bye, 
Meg,  it  is  there  you  sit,  as  a  rule,  eh  ?  I'd  keep  my  eye 
on  that  young  man,  if  I  were  you.  He  is  up  to  some- 
thing ;  I  hope  it  isn't  theft." 

"  I  hope  not, "returns  Miss  Daryl,  with  an  attempt  at  in- 
difference. Then  she  gives  way  as  she  catches  the  other's 
eye,  and  breaks  into  petulant  laughter.  "  He  is  a  thorough 
nuisance,"  she  says,  in  a  vexed  tone.  "  He  is  never  off 
the  premises." 

"  The  boys  are  so  attractive,"  adds  Mrs.  Billy.  "  At  that 
rate,  I  expect  the  sooner  I  become  acquainted  with  him 
the  better.  Take  me  down,  Meg,  and  bring  me  face  to  face 
with  him.  As  you  evident'/  can't  bear  him,  I  suppose  I 
had  better  begin  well  and  rout  him  with  great  slaughter  at 
this  our  first  meeting.  Shall  I  exterminate  him  with  a 
blow,  or " 

"  Do  anything  you  like  to  him,"  says  Meg,  who  is  evi- 
dently full  of  rage  when  she  thinks  of  the  invader. 

When  they  get  to  the  small  armory  door,  however,  that 
leads  directly  into  the  garden,  she  comes  to  a  sudden 
halt. 

"I  think  if  you  will  walk  rather  slowly,  I  will  just  run 
on  and  tell  him  you  are  coming,"  she  says  rather  jerkily, 
looking  askance  at  her  companion  as  if  a  little  bit  ashamed 
of  her  suggestion,  and  then  without  waiting  for  an  answer 
speeds  away  from  her,  swift  as  an  arrow  from  the  bow. 

"Just  warn  him  that  I'm  coming — and  so  is  his  last 
hour,"  calls  out  Mrs.  Billy  after  her,  convulsed  with  laugh- 
ter. But  Miss  Daryl  refuses  to  hear.  She  hurries  on 
through  the  old-fashioned  garden,  full  of  its  quaint  flower- 
beds, and  odd  yew  hedges  cut  in  fantastic  shapes — past  a 
moss  grown  sun-dial,  and  the  strutting  peacocks  and  their 
discordant  scream,  until  at  last  she  runs  almost  into  Mr. 
Bellevv's  willing  arms. 

"Ah  !  here  you  are  at  last,"  cries  the  young  man  in  an 
accent  of  undisguised  delight  as  she  comes  up  to  him 
breathless.  "  I  thought  you'd  never  come  !  Such  a  cent- 


£ADY  BRANKSMERE.  37 

ury  as  it  has  seemed.  Three  weeks  in  town  and  not  a 
line  from  you.  You  might  have  written  one,  I  think  !  I 
got  back  an  hour  ago,  and  hurried  over  here  to " 

"Make  an  ass  of  yourself!"  interrupts  Miss  Daryl 
wrathfully,  who  has  unconsciously  adopted  a  good  many 
of  her  brother's  pretty  phrases.  "And  here!" — looking 
round  her,  "  Is  this  the  only  place  you  could  think  of  ?  Is 
there  no  drawing-room  in  the  house  that  you  must 
needs  be  found  prowling  about  the  shrubberies  ?  Any- 
thing more  outrageous  than  your  behavior  could  hardly  be 
imagined  ! " 

"  Why,  what  on  earth  have  I  been  doing  now  ?  "  demands 
Mr.  Bellew,  in  a  bewildered  tone. 

"Mrs.  Daryl  has  been  gazing  at  you  through  an  upper 
window  for  the  last  ten  minutes,  and  very  naturally  came 
to  the  conclusion  that  you  were  a  person  of  no  character 
whatsoever.  She  was  nearer  the  mark  than  she  knew ! " 
puts  in  Miss  Daryl  viciously.  "  I  didn't  betray  you." 

"Mrs.  Daryl !     What !     The  new  woman  ?  "  anxiously. 

"  New  ?  One  would  think  she  was  a  purchase.  What 
an  extraordinary  way  to  speak  of  one's  sister-in-law,"  ex- 
claims Meg,  who  is  determined  to  give  quarter  nowhere. 
"Yes,  she  was  so  annoyed  by  your  prowling  that  she  is 
coming  round  presently  to  give  you  a  bit  of  her  mind." 

"Bless  me  !  I  hope  not !  "  says  Mr.  Bellew,  who  probably 
had  never  known  fear  until  this  moment.  "  I — I  think  I'll 
go,"  he  says  falteringly. 

"You  can't.  She's  coming.  Why  on  earth  couldn't 
you  have  called  at  the  hall-door  like  any  other  decent 
Christian  ?  " 

"  Well,  so  I  did,"  indignantly.  "  I  did  the  regulation 
thing  right  through.  Knocked  at  the  'front  door  ;'  asked 
for  Mr.  Daryl ;  heard  he  was  out ;  left  my  card,  and  then 
thought  I'd  come  round  here  to  look  for  you." 

"  Well,  I  won't  have  it ! " — decisively.  "  I  won't  be  fol- 
lowed about  by  anything  but  my  own  terrier,  and  I  dis- 
tinctly refuse  to  be  made  by  you  the  laughing-stock  of  the 
world.  She  was  dying  with  laughter.  I  could  see  that. 
I  tell  you  she  thought  first  you  had  designs  on  the  house. 
I  had  to  explain  you  away.  I  had" — angrily — "  to  assure 
her  you  weren't  a  burglar,  but  only  a  person  called  Curzon 
Bellew." 

This  contemptuously,  and  as  though  Curzon  Bellew  is  a 
person  distinctly  inferior  to  the  burglar. 

"  I  won't  come  here  at  all  if  it  displeases  you,"  says  Mr. 


38  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

Bellew,  in  a  white  heat.  "  Say  the  word,  and  I  go  for- 
ever !  "  There  is  something  tragic  about  this. 

"Go,  and  joy  go  with  you  !"  returns  she,  scornfully. 

"That  is  a  kinder  wish  than  you  mean,"  says  the  young 
man,  clasping  her  hands.  "  No.  I  won't  go.  Would  I 
take  joy  from  you  ?  And  do  your  words  mean  that  if  I 
went  joy  would  of  necessity  go  too  ? " 

"Goto!"  repeats  Miss  Daryl,  but  in  a  very  different 
tone,  and  then,  as  though  impelled  to  it  by  the  glad  youth 
within  them,  they  both  burst  out  laughing. 

After  awhile  Mr.  Bellew  grows  grave  again. 

"Well,"  asks  he,  confidentially,  "what  do  you  think  of 
her?" 

"  Her  ?  You  should  speak  more  respectfully  of  such  a 
dragon  as  she  has  proved  herself,  if,  indeed,  you  mean 
Mrs.  Daryl.  But  why  ask  me  for  a  photograph  ?  She  will 
be  here  in  a  moment  to " 

"Yes,  yes,  I  know,"  hastily.  "That  is  why  I  want  to  be 
prepared.  What  is  she  like,  eh  ?" 

"  All  the  rest  of  the  world.  She  has  a  nose,  two  eyes, 
and  a  mouth  ; — quite  ordinary.  Disappointing,  isn't  it  ?  " 

"  Then  she  isn't ?  " 

"  No,  she  isn't !  "  saucily.  "  What  did  you  expect  ?  An 
ogress  ?" 

"  Why,  that  was  what  you  expected,"  says  Mr.  Bellew, 
very  justly  incensed.  "You  said 

He  is  stricken  dumb  by  the  sight  of  a  pretty  little  plump 
person,  who  has  emerged  apparently  from  the  laurel  close 
by.' 

"You  will  introduce  me,  Meg,"  says  the  vision,  smiling 
friendly-wise  at  the  disconcerted  young  man.  "  Is  this  the 
ogress  ?  the  tyrant  ?  the—  ~~  ' 

"  Certainly  !  This  is  lv.  Bellew,  a  very  old  friend  of 
ours,"  says  Margery,  in  the  tone  of  one  who  evidently 
deems  the  Mr.  Bellew  in  question  of  no  account  whatso- 
ever. 

"So  glad  to  meet  you,  Mr.  Bellew,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl, 
with  the  sweetest  smile.  "Margery  tells  me  you  are  quite 
an  old  friend  with  all  here,  so  I  hope  by  and  by  we,  you 
and  I,  shall  be  friends,  too." 

Where  is  the  ogress  in  all  this  ?  Mr.  Bellew  feels  his 
heart  go  out  to  this  pretty,  smiling,  gracious  little  thing 
upon  the  gravelled  path. 

"  You  are  very  good,"  he  stammers,  feeling  still  some- 
what insecure,  the  revulsion  of  feeling  being  extreme. 


LADY  BRAXKSMERE.  39 

"  Billy  was  out  then  ?  I  am  so  sorry.  One  of  the  ser- 
vants told  me  on  my  way  here  that  you  wished  to  see  him. 
Never  mind.  Perhaps — what  do  you  think,  Margery  ? 
Perhaps  your  friend,  Mr.  Bellew,  will  dine  with  us  with- 
out ceremony  to-morrow  evening  ?" 

The  two  words  "your  friend  "  does  it.  From  that  mo- 
ment Curzon  Bellew  is  her  slave.  Margery  murmurs 
something  civil,  and  presently  Mrs.  Daryl  with  another 
honeyed  word  or  two  disappears  between  the  branches. 

"  Well  ? "  says  Meg, 

"  Well  ? " 

"  She  isn't  quite  the  ogress  you  imagined,  eh  ?  " 

"  Why,  it  was  you  who  used  to  call  her  that,"  exclaims 
Curzon,  with  some  righteous  wrath.  "And  now  you  try 
to  put  it  upon  me.  It  is  the  most  unfair  thing  I  ever 
heard  of.  You  have  forgotten,  you  know." 

"  Unfair  ?  " 

"  Yes.  You  said  you  were  miserable  at  the  thought  of 
having  to  live  with  an  ill-tempered — 

"That's  right.  Put  it  all  upon  me,  by  all  means.  I'm 
only  a  woman.  Ill-tempered !  why,  she  is  sweet.  How 
can  you  so  malign  her  ?  " 

A  voice  comes  to  them  through  the  twilight : 

"  Margery  !  Margery  Daw  !  Where  are  you  ?  Come 
in.  The  dew  is  falling." 

Miss  Daryl  makes  a  step  toward  the  house. 

"  Oh,  Meg,  to  leave  me  without  one  kind  word  after 
three  weeks.  How  can  you  ? "  cries  Bellew,  in  a  subdued 
tone  that  is  full  of  grief. 

"  Well,  there,"  says  Meg,  extending  to  him  her  little, 
slender,  white  hand,  with  all  the  haughty  graciousness  of 
a  queen. 

"  If  I  come  to  dinner  to-morrow  night,  you  will  be  glad  ?  " 

"  Glad  ?  It  won't  put  me  out  in  the  least,  if  you  mean 
that,"  says  Miss  Daryl,  slipping  from  him  through  the 
dewy  branches. 

The  day  has  waned  ;  night — a  dark,  damp,  spring  night — 
has  fallen  upon  the  earth.  There  is  an  extreme  closeness 
in  the  air  that  speaks  of  coming  storm.  The  shadow  of  a 
starless  night  is  thrown  over  the  world  that  lies  sleeping 
uneasily  beneath  its  weight,  and  from  the  small  rivers  in 
the  distance  comes  the  sound  of  rushing  that  goes  before 
the  swelling  of  the  floods.  Storm,  and  rain,  and  passion? 
ate  wind,  may  be  predicted  for  the  coming  morn. 


40  LADY  BRANKSMRRE. 

Dinner  long  since  has  come  to  an  end  ;  it  is  now  close 
on  ten  o'clock.  Margery  and  Mrs.  Daryl  are  sitting  to- 
gether in  the  library,  before  a  blazing  fire — rather  silent, 
rather  depressed  in  spite  of  themselves — a  little  imbued 
unconsciously  by  the  electric  fluid  with  which  the  air 
seems  charged.  The  windows  leading  on  to  the  balcony 
are  thrown  wide  open.  The  fire  has  been  lit  as  usual,  but 
the  night  is  almost  suffocating,  so  dense  and  heavy  is  the 
still,  hot  atmosphere  without. 

"  One  feels  uncanny,  somehow,  as  if  strange  things  were 
about,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  presently,  with  a  rather  nervous 
little  laugh.  "  I  can't  bear  lightning,  can  you  ?  And 
there  is  sure  to  be  plenty  of  it  before  the  morning.  What 
a  weird  night.  Look  how  dark  it  is  without.  Ah,  what  is 
that ? " 

"  What  ! "  cries  Margery,  in  turn,  springing  to  her  feet. 

There  is  a  sound  of  light,  ghostly  footsteps  on  the  bal- 
cony beyond,  and  from  the  sullen  mist  a  tall  figure 
emerges,  clothed  from  head  to  heel  in  sombre  garments. 
It  comes  quickly  toward  them  through  the  open  window, 
the  face  hidden  by  a  black  hood,  until  almost  within  a 
yard  or  two  of  them.  Then  it  comes  to  an  abrupt  stand- 
still and  flings  back  the  covering  from  its  face. 


CHAPTER   V. 

"Yea,  this  one's  brow,  like  to  a  tragic  leaf, 
Foretells  the  nature  of  a  tragic  volume." 

"  AH  !  Muriel !  "  cries  Margery,  with  a  swift  revulsion  of 
feeling  from  fear  to  excessive  joy.  "  It  is  only  you  after 
all."  She  runs  to  her  and  encircles  the  cloaked  figure 
with  loving  arms.  There  is  a  silent  embrace  between  the 
sisters,  and  then  flinging  her  long  covering  somewhat  im- 
patiently from  her,  Lady  Branksmere  stands  revealed. 

A  tall  slight  woman,  with  a  statuesque  figure  exquisitely 
moulded.  And  a  bronzed  head,  superbly  set  upon  her 
shoulders  !  She  is  gowned  in  some  soft,  black,  clinging 
draperies,  against  which  her  naked  hands  and  arms  show 
with  a  dazzling  clearness.  There  is  a  touch  of  sunlight  in 
the  rich  brown  of  her  hair,  but  her  face  is  pallid  almost  to 
ghastliness,  and  beneath  the  great  mournful  eyes  of  deep- 
est gray,  purple  shadows  lie  that  tell  of  sleepless  nights 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  41 

and  a  mind  torn  and  racked  by  cruel  memories.  Her  chin 
is  firmly  rounded,  and  her  long,  thin  fingers  are  peculiarly 
lithe  and  supple. 

"Muriel !  To  think  of  your  coming  back  to  us  like  this, 
so  suddenly,  without  a  word  !  " 

"  I  am  not  coming  back,  however.  I  am  only  lent," 
says  Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  peculiar  smile,  that  is  alto- 
gether without  joyousness. 

"This  is  Wilhelmina.  This  is  Billy's  wife,"  goes  on 
Margery,  hastily,  who  might  perhaps  be  suspected  of  be- 
ing afraid  to  stop  talking.  She  draws  Muriel  toward 
Mrs.  Billy,  who,  up  to  this,  has  been  too  surprised  to  do 
anything. 

"Ah  ?"  says  the  new-comer  expressively,  with  a  sudden 
smile,  which  enables  one  to  see  that  her  perfect  teeth  are 
somewhat  squarely  formed,  and  that  her  mouth  is  large, 
and  her  smile,  though  beautiful,  short-lived. 

She  goes  forward  and  lays  her  pretty  slender  hand  on 
Mrs.  Billy's  arm,  and  looks  at  her  long-and  attentively. 

"  There  was  no  exaggeration,"  she  says  at  last,  in  a 
quick  restless  way  ;  "  one  can  see  how  it  is.  One  can  un- 
derstand. I  am  glad  Billy  is  happy." 

She  falls  back  from  the  sister-in-law  after  saying  this, 
and  appeals  to  Margery. 

"  After  all  it  is  only  barely  just  that  some  of  us  should 
be  happy,"  she  says,  with  a  little  laugh  that  is  too  graceful 
to  be  called  forced,  but  that  certainly  never  arose  from  a 
glad  heart.  "  You  have  a  charming  face,"  she  says  to 
Mrs.  Billy,  looking  back  at  her  over  her  shoulder  with  a 
little  nod. 

There  is  a  peculiar  fascination  in  itself  in  the  restless 
fashion  of  her  speech.  Mrs.  Billy  gives  in  to  it.  She,  to 
whom  shyness  up  to  this  has  been  unknown,  stands  now 
mute  and  wordless  before  this  strange,  lovely,  imperious 
girl,  who  as  yet  is  too  newly-wedded  to  have  merged  her 
youth  into  womanhood,  and  who  has  stolen  upon  her 
through  the  darkness,  and  dazzled  her  with  her  beauty. 
She  has  marked  each  charm  with  a  curious  care.  The 
figure  that  would  not  have  disgraced  a  Juno,  the  face  so 
like  a  sorrowful  Proserpine  !  She  is  like  a  Venus,  too, 
but  in  a  pathetic  fashion  ;  the  ever  blossoming  gayety,  the 
orthodox  frivolity  of  the  one  being  in  such  sad  contrast  with 
the  mournful  posing  of  the  other.  There  is  a  condensed, 
a  sure  but  subdued,  passion  about  Muriel,  that  puzzles 
while  it  attracts  the  gentler  nature  of  Mrs.  Billy. 


42  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

Still  Muriel  is  smiling  on  her  !  Then,  all  at  once,  as 
though  the  author  of  it  is  wearied,  the  sniiie  fades,  and 
the  light  that  lias  grown  within  Lady  Branksmere's  eyes 
dies,  too. 

"Well  ?"  she  says,  sinking  wearily  into  a  chair.  "  How 
are  you  all,  eh  ? " 

"As  well  as  can  be  expected,"  returns  Margery,  gayly, 
who  seems  overflowing  with  joy  at  having  her  sister  with 
her  again.  "  How  good  of  you  to  come  at  once.  How 
good,  too,  of  Lord  Branksmere  to  spare  you." 

Lady  Branksmere  stares  at  her  for  a  moment. 

"  Oh  !  yes  ;  he  spared  me,"  she  says,  with  a  peculiar 
laugh  that  jars  upon  her  hearers,  and  somehow  reduces 
them  to  silence. 

Lady  Branksmere,  as  though  struck  by  the  effect  of  her 
words,  and  growing  impatient  beneath  it,  springs  to  her 
feet. 

"Show  me  the  rest  of  the  house,"  she  says,  hurriedly. 
"  I  have  thought  of  it,  bit  by  bit,  all  the  time  I  have  been 
away,  but  now  I  want  to  see  it.  Come." 

As  she  gets  to  the  door  she  turns  again  to  Margery. 

"Where  are  the  children  ?     Can  I  see  them  ?"  she  asks. 

"Of  course.  They  have  gone  to  bed,  but  if  you  will 
come  up — 

"Not  now.  I  have  plenty  of  time  yet.  By  and  by 

when  I  am  going "  She  checks  herself  and  draws  her 

breath  quickly.  "Do  you  knew  I  was  going  to  say  home  ? 
I  meant,  back  to  the  Castle.  What  a  silly  mistake  !  But 
for  the  moment  I  quite  forgot." 

She  looks  round  her  at  the  beautiful  old  hall,  with  a  very 
odd  smile. 

"  And  Billy  ?  And  the  boys  ? "  she  asks  at  last,  when 
her  uninterrupted  reverie  has  come  to  an  end. 

"  Billy  has  gone  to  a  county  meeting,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl, 
very  gently,  "and  has  taken  Peter  with  him.  Dick,  I  am 
afraid,  is  with  the  rabbits." 

"Ah!"  says  Lady  Branksmere.  But  even  as  she  says 
it  she  seems  to  have  forgotten  the  twins,  Billy,  and  all, 
and  lost  herself  in  contemplation  of  a  more  self-contained 
character.  As  if  still  musing,  she  walks  mechanically 
across  the  hall  and  into  the  drawing-room.  Here  she 
wakens  into  the  present  life  again.  The  scene  she  now 
looks  upon  is  not  the  one  of  her  dreams  ;  all  is  changed, 
and  for  the  better,  as  she  at  once  allows. 

"What  a  pretty  room  you   have   made  of  it,"  she  says, 


LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


43 


turning  with  a  faintly  suppressed  sigh  to  Mrs.  Billy.  "  So 
different !  That  ghastly  old  furniture  !  I  am  glad  you 
have  relegated  it  to  the  celestial  regions,  as  we  used  to 
call  the  garrets  long  ago.  Or  was  it  to  the  infernal  ones 
it  went  ?  I  don't  believe  even  cook  would  be  glad  because 
of  it  ?  What  a  room  it  was  !  And  they  all  clung  to  it  so ! 
I  suppose  I  -am  wanting  in  the  finer  grades  of  feeling,  be- 
cause, whenever  /  thought  of  it,  it  gave  me  a  headache. 
Well  ?  And  so  Billy  is  very,  very  happy  ?  That  is  one  of 
us  out  of  the  fire,  at  all  events."  She  smiles  again,  an  in- 
different little  expression  of  good-will  that  lasts  just  long 
enough  to  make  one  aware  that  it  was  there,  but  no 
longer. 

"  Dearest  Muriel !  It  is  so  good  to  see  you  again,"  ex- 
claims Margery,  caressingly. 

"Is  it  ? "  Lady  Branksmere  takes  her  sister's  hand,  and 
pats  it  softly.  Then  all  at  once  her  glance  wanders  back 
again  to  Wilhelmina.  "  I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  she  says, 
"  that  I  intended  to  take  Margery  to  live  with  me  at 
Branksmere,  but  now  that  I  have  seen  you  I  know  she  is 
far  better  where  she  is."  She  looks  intently  at  Mrs. 
Daryl's  bright  face  and  says  again,  "Far  better." 

"She  is  quite  happy  where  she  is.  Is  it  not  so,  Meg?" 
asks  Mrs.  Billy,  a  little  anxiously. 

"  Entirely  so,"  returns  Margery,  hastily.  In  truth  she 
would  have  been  rather  afraid  to  begin  life  afresh  with 
Lord  Branksmere,  who  is  almost  a  stranger  to  her.  Then, 
some  sudden  remorseful  thought  recurring  to  her,  she 
slips  her  arm  around  Muriel.  "  I  am  without  a  wish  now 
you  are  home,  again,"  she  whispers,  tenderly. 

"Yes,"  says  Lady  Branksmere.  She  unwinds  the  girl's 
arm  very  gently,  and  holding  her  hand  looks  at  Mrs. 
Daryl.  "  She  will  be  safe  with  you,"  she  continues  slowly. 
"And  she  can  learn  to  love  you  now,  as,  once,  she  loved 
me." 

Her  tone  is  calm  to  indifference,  yet  there  is  something 
in  it  that  brings  tears  to  Margery's  eyes. 

"  I  can  love  you  both,  darling — but  you  always  first  ; 
you  are  my  sister,"  she  says  tenderly,  yet  with  a  decisive 
force,  for  which  Wilhelmina  in  her  own  honest  soul  hon- 
ors her. 

"  Oh  !  as  for  me  !  I  expect  that  I  have  done  with  all 
that  sort  of  thing,"  returns  Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  curi- 
ous laugh.  She  drops  languidly  into  a  chair,  and  looks  up 
at  Wilhelmina.  "  The  comfort  it  is  to  know  that  you  are 


44  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

you!"  she  says.  "  It  makes  home  to  them  all.  You  get 
on  with  Billy,  eh  ?" 

Mrs.  Daryl  looks  rather  puzzled,  and  then  a  sense  of 
amusement  breaks  through  everything.  It  is  a  good  while 
since  she  has  given  way  to  mirth  of  any  kind,  and  an  over- 
powering desire  to  give  way  to  it  now  fills  her. 

"Oh  !  yes,"  she  answers  meekly,  her  eyes  on  the  carpet. 
She  is  battling  with  the  wild  longing  for  laughter,  that  it 
will  be  such  a  betise  to  permit.  It  is  all  so  intensely  ab- 
surd !  The  idea  of  her  not  getting  on  with  Billy,  or  he 
with  her  ! 

"  You  like  being  here  ? " 

"  Very  much  indeed.  The  country  is  so  altogether 
lovely,  and  the  children  so  pretty." 

"  Ah  !  I  see,"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  who  has  a  little 
strange  way  of  staring  at  people  now  and  then,  as  if  mak- 
ing up  her  mind  about  them,  that  is  somewhat  perplexing. 
"  One  can  quite  understand.  You  are  here  ;  you  pervade 
everything  ;  you  are,  in  a  word,  happy.  When  I  ruled 
here,  things  hardly  ran  so  smoothly."  She  glances  at 
Margery  with  an  expression  that  is  half  careless,  half  wist- 
ful. 

Mrs.  Daryl  comes  to  the  rescue  with  a  tender  grace  that 
sits  most  sweetly  on  her. 

"  All  day  the  children  talk  of  you  and  long  for  you," 
she  says  ;  and  even  as  she  speaks — as  though  to  corrobo- 
rate her  words — the  door  is  flung  violently  open,  and  the 
twins  rush  tumultuously  into  the  room,  and  precipitate 
themselves  upon  Muriel. 

There  is  rather  a  paucity  of  garments  about  them,  and 
a  thorough  lack  of  shame.  They  are  as  lively  as  crickets, 
and  as  full  of  conversation  as  a  stream.  They  look  tri- 
umphant, too,  as  though  they  had  discovered  a  plot 
against  them  and  had  overcome  it. 

"  It  is  only  just  this  instant  we  heard  of  your  coming, 
and  when  we  heard  it,  we  ran.  Why  didn't  you  come  up 
to  the  nursery  ?  We  were  wide  awake.  I  think  Margery  " 
— with  a  withering  glance  at  that  defaulter — "  might  have 
told  us,  but  we  found  it  out  from  nurse.  Did  you  hear 
Jumper  has  got  a  new  pup  ?  He  had  lots  more,  but  that 
horrid  Gubbins  drowned  all  its  little  brothers  and  sisters. 
And  how  did  you  like  being  abroad  ?  Was  it  nice  ?  Was 
it  hot  ?  Are  they  all  the  color  of  lemons  ?  Was  Rome  as 
blue  as  the  pictures  say  ? " 

"  Bluer,"  Lady  Branksmere  assures  them,  disengaging 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  45 

herself  from  their  somewhat  embarrassing  embrace,  and 
drawing  them  on  to  her  knees  instead.  She  seems  more 
at  home  with  the  two  little  dishevelled  lovely  things  in 
their  night-gowns  than  she  has  been  with  what  they  would 
call  the  "grown  ups."  "It  was  all  blue;  abominably 
blue,"  she  goes  on  lightly.  "  It  was  hideous  because  of 
its  monotony." 

"  And  how  is  Lord  Branksmere  ?  "  asks  little  May,  pret- 
tily. As  the  words  fall  upon  the  air  it  occurs  to  most  of 
those  present  that  the  child  is  the  first,  the  only  one,  who 
has  made  a  civil  inquiry  about  Muriel's  husband. 

Lady  Branksmere  laughs  aloud,  but  somehow,  as  if  im- 
pulsively, she  puts  the  child  away  from  her. 

"  You  are  a  courageous  little  mortal,"  she  says.  "You 
have  actually  summoned  sufficient  courage  to  ask  after  the 
Ogre  !  He  is  quite  well,  thank  you."  She  casts  a  swift 
glance  at  Margery  from  under  her  heavy  lids,  and  seems 
a  little  amused  at  the  hot  blush  that  has  overspread  her 
cheeks ;  but  in  truth  Margery  had  dreaded  to  drag  Lord 
Branksmere's  name  into  the  conversation.  How  would  it 
have  been  received  ?  What  answer  would  have  been  given 
her  to  any  polite  inquiry  as  to  his  welfare  ? 

"This  is  not  a  visit  to  you — you  two,"  Lady  Branksmere 
is  saying  to  the  children.  "  To-morrow  I  shall  make  a  for- 
mal call  upon  you,  in  my  carriage  and  with  my  cards,  and 
so  forth,  and  will  leave  my  respects,  with  some  bonbons. 
Pray  be  careful  of  all !  And  now,  considering  the  airiness 
of  your  draperies,  I  would  suggest  a  return  to  the  nursery 
and  bed." 

She  dismisses  the  children,  who  appear  to  obey  her  in- 
stinctively, and  who  are  evidently  much  cheered  by  the 
prospect  of  sweetmeats  on  the  morrow,  and  then  turns  to 
Margery  with  a  half  contemptuous  light  in  her  eyes  and  a 
certain  curving  of  her  lips. 

"  Lord  Branksmere  is  quite  well,  I  assure  you  ;  you 
need  not  have  been  so  nervous  about  making  your  in- 
quiries," she  says.  "  Don't  you  think  you  had  better  grasp 
the  fact  at  once,  that  he  is  your  brother-in-law." 

"Of  course — of  course,"  hastily,  "but  you  see  he  has 
been  so  much  abroad  all  our  lives.  We  scarcely  know 
him,  as  it  were." 

"  True  ;  we  scarcely  know  him,"  repeats  Lady  Branks- 
mere, musingly  ;  which  remark,  coming  from  the  man's 
wife,  rather  startles  Mrs.  Daryl. 

"  The  castle  has  been  exquisitely  done  up  ;  hasn't  it  ? " 


46  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

asks  Margery.  "We  heard  so,  but  none  of  us  went  over 
to  see  it.  Tell  me  Muriel,"  bending  eagerly  forward, 
"have  you  seen  the  old  woman  yet?  Old  Lady  Branks- 
mere  ? " 

"Ye-es.  What  there  is  of  her.  She  is  nothing  but 
bones  and  two  large  preternaturally  bright  eyes.  One  can 
positively  hear  her  rattle  when  she  moves  in  bed.  She  is 
very  trying,"  with  a  distasteful  shrug. 

"She  is  a  witch,"  explains  Margery,  turning  to  Wil- 
helmina.  "  Everyone  is  afraid  of  her.  She  is  about 
a  thousand  years  old,  and  isn't  thinking  of  dying.  She 
is  Branksmere's  grandmother,  and  he  is  by  no  means 
a  chicken.  Oh,  I  beg  your  pardon,  Muriel ;  I  only 
meant " 

"  Branksmere  is  thirty-six,"  says  Muriel,  indifferently. 
"  By  the  bye,"  looking  suddenly  at  her  sister,  "  there  is  a 
Madame  von  Thirsk  staying  at  the  castle — living  there  in 
fact.  It  appears  she  has  been  there  for  years  as  attendant 
to  the  dowager.  Ever  heard  of  her  ? " 

"Never,"  with  some  surprise.  "But  I  suppose  an 
elderly  attendant  would  be  little  heard  of." 

"  Elderly  !  She  is  young,  and  remarkably  handsome. 
She  seems  to  have  made  herself  a  position  there,  and  to 
have  a  good  deal  of  influence.  She  came  forward  to  re- 
ceive me  this  evening,  on  my  arrival,  quite  as  if — well,  as 
if  she  were  mistress  of  the  house,  not  I,"  with  a  rather 
strange  laugh. 

Margery  makes  a  little  moue. 

"  I  shouldn't  like  that,"  she  says. 

"No,"  returns  Lady  Branksmere,  carelessly;  "I  shall 
get  rid  of  her." 

She  rises  to  her  feet. 

"  I  must  be  going.     It  grows  very  late." 

"  But,  how  do  you  mean  to  return  ?" 

"As  I  came.  I  walked  across  the  park,  and  through 
the  lower  wood.  No,  I  want  nothing.  I  brought  my 
maid  with  me,  and  I  wish  you  would  ring  the  bell  and  tell 
her  to  meet  me  at  the  hall-door.  Ah  !  I  knew  there  was 
something  I  wanted  to  tell  you  :  I  met  Tommy  Paulyn  on 
my  way  through  town,  and  he  has  promised  to  come  to 
me  for  a  little  while  next  week." 

She  kisses  Margery,  and  then  Mrs.  Billy,  and  presently 
is  out  again  in  the  dark  night.  Here  and  there  an  unwill- 
ing star  has  forced  a  way  into  the  dull  vault  above  her, 
and  a  hot,  sullen  wind  has  arisen  among  the  trees.  Now 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  47 

and  then  it  touches  one,  but  for  the  most  part  it  is  possi- 
ble to  forget  it.  Not  a  sound  wakes  the  air  : 

"  All  things  are  hush'd,  as  nature's  self  was  dead," 

and  only  occasionally  the  density  of  the  darkness  is  relieved 
by  the  glimmering  of  a  white  patch  upon  the  aspens. 

The  wood  belonging  to  the  Manor  through  which  she 
must  pass  on  her  way  to  the  park  that  belongs  to  the  Cas- 
tle, is  naturally  well-known  to  Lady  Branksmere.  De- 
scending into  a  little  grassy  hollow,  with  her  maid  close  at 
her  heels,  she  comes  to  a  standstill,  and  looks  around  her. 
The  clouds  have  parted  for  a  moment,  and  a  watery  glance 
from  a  watery  moon  makes  the  pretty  hollow,  that  might 
well  be  termed  a  fairy  dell,  distinctly  visible. 

Lady  Branksmere  looks  round  her  for  a  moment,  with  a 
sudden  shrinking  as  though  taking  in  each  detail.  Alas  ! 
how  well-remembered  it  all  is — this  dainty  spot  that  once 
had  been  a  daily  trysting  place.  She  sighs  heavily,  and 
then,  gathering  her  cloak  more  closely  round  her  as 
though  a  sudden  chill  has  fallen  on  her  heart,  moves  once 
more  quickly  homeward. 

As  she  nears  the  Castle,  a  brilliant  light  from  the  draw- 
ing-room streams  across  the  lawn  almost  to  her  feet.  The 
windows  are  thrown  open  in  the  hope  perhaps  that  some 
cool  air  will  travel  inward.  Muriel,  dismissing  her  maid, 
turns  toward  the  veranda  that  is  illuminated  by  the  light, 
and  slowly,  with  reluctant  feet,  mounts  the  steps  that  lead 
to  it.  The  sound  of  voices  reach  her  when  she  lias  gone 
half  way,  and  when  she  has  gained  the  veranda  she  looks 
curiously  through  the  open  window  nearest  to  her  into 
the  room. 

What  she  sees  there  dispels  all  languor ! 


CHAPTER  VI. 

"  I  vow  and  protest  there's  more  plague  than  pleasure  with  a  secret." 

SITTING  upon  an  ottomon  beside  a  remarkably  handsome 
woman  is  a  tall  man  of  about  thirty-six  or  so,  dark-browed 
and  dark-complexioned,  with  a  firm  mouth  and  a  nonde- 
script nose.  A  heavy  black  mustache,  partially  streaked 
with  gray,  falls  over  but  hardly  conceals  his  lips,  which 
are  in  a  measure  thin.  His  jaws,  clean  shaven,  are  squared 


48  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

He  is  not  a  handsome  man,  but  a  very  distinguished 
looking  one — that  something  infinitely  better!  That 
he  has  lived  all  his  time  one  may  see  at  a  glance  ;  that 
he  has  immense  self-control  and  great  power  of  self-re- 
pression one  reads  as  one  runs.  But  there  is  something 
about  the  stern  face  that  confuses  one's  analysis  of  the 
soul  within.  A  sadness,  a  suppression,  a  strain  about  the 
whole  man  that  contrasts  oddly  with  the  coldness  of  his 
bearing,  and  is  probably  the  outcome  of  some  past  and 
terrible  grief. 

The  woman  seated  beside  him,  and  looking  into  his  face 
with  a  strange  earnestness,  is  dark  and  slight,  with  glisten- 
ing, melting  black  eyes  and  a  lissome  willowy  figure.  To 
an  outsider,  Madame  von  Thirsk,  instead  of  a  woman  of 
thirty-five,  would  seem  a  girl  of  twenty-two.  Lady  Branks- 
mere,  regarding  her  from  the  darkened  veranda,  acknowl- 
edges the  fact. 

"  Yes  !  It  must  never  be  betrayed  :  it  must  always  rest 
a  secret  between  you  and  me,"  Madame  is  saying  in  a  low 
agitated  tone,  her  hand  pressed  upon  Lord  Branksmere's 
arm.  Every  word  is  distinctly  audible  to  the  quiet  watcher 
without,  who  is  standing,  motionless,  a  silent  spectator  of 
the  picture  before  her. 

"  Yet  " — begins  Lord  Branksmere,  with  some  agitation. 

"  I  tell  you,  man  ami,  there  is  no  'yet,'  no  hesitation  in 
this  matter.  It  is  between  you  and  me.  We  two  alone 
hold  this  sorrow.  Would  you  be  false  to  your  oath — to 
me,  after  all  these  years  ?  "  She  leans  toward  him. 

Lady  Branksmere,  on  the  veranda  without,  smiles  curi- 
ously, and  drops  her  eyes. 

"  It  would  make  the  whole  thing  in  a  degree  vulgar  were  I 
to  see  him  kiss  her,"  she  says  to  herself.  "  As  it  is,  the  scene 
is  perfect.  Well,  I  owe  him  little.  For  that,  at  least,  I 
should  be  grateful.  Now,  to  break  up  their  tete-a-tete  !  " 

She  steps  lightly  into  the  room,  and  as  she  comes  be- 
neath the  centre  chandelier,  throws  back  the  lace  veil 
from  her  head  and  looks  straight  at  her  husband. 

"Where  were  you?"  asks  he,  quickly,  rising  as  she 
enters.  Some  color  flames  into  his  face. 

"  At  home.  With  my  people,"  returns  she,  not  curtly, 
or  uncourteously,  but  coldly. 

"  Ah  !  At  Jwme  ?  "  says  Madame,  as  if  not  comprehend- 
ing. 

"  Lady  Branksmere  is  alluding  to  her  old  home  ;  to  the 
Manor,"  explains  Lord  Branksmere,  stiffly. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  49 

"Yes,  to  my  home,"  repeats  Muriel,  smiling. 

"  It  is  strange.  We  thought  you  still  here,"  says  Ma- 
dame, smiling,  too. 

Muriel  stares  at  her  inquiringly. 

"  We?     Who  ?  "  demands  she. 

Madame  grows  uncomfortably  red  beneath  the  other's 
comtemptuous  gaze,  and  loses  herself  for  a  moment  in 
the  contemplation  of  her  face.  Then  she  rallies  a  little. 

"  Lord  Branksmere  and  I,"  she  answers  equably.  Then, 
with  a  sudden  glance  full  of  seeming  anxiety,  "  Was  it 
not  late  ?  Was  it  not  cold  for  you,  out  in  the  open  air  ? " 

"  You  are  very  good  to  trouble  yourself  so  much  about 
me,"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  still  with  excessive  and  em- 
barrassing civility,  but  without,  however,  making  even  a 
pretence  of  answering  her. 

"  Your  friends,"  remarks  Madame,  with  a  sudden  em- 
phasis, "would  naturally  feel  some  anxiety  about — 

"  Would  they  ? " — (Lady  Branksmere  interrupts  her 
lightly) — "  How  do  you  know  ?"  she  asks  with  the  same 
immovable  smile.  "  My  friends,"  copying  the  emphasis, 
"  are  very  far  from  this  house." 

"  Ah  !  no  !  You  forget  your  husband,"  Madame  reminds 
her,  softly. 

There  is  an  instant's  pause  during  which  she  watches 
intently  the  two  before  her.  Lord  Branksmere  on  the 
hearth-rug  is  staring  frowningly  at  the  wall  beyond  ; 
Muriel,  with  a  rather  bored  expression  about  her  beauti- 
ful mouth,  is  lazily  unwinding  the  lace  that  had  encircled 
her  throat.  No  spark  of  love  lights  either  face.  Madame 
von  Thirsk,  letting  her  heavily  fringed  lids  droop  over  her 
eyes,  permits  a  faint  smile  of  satisfaction  to  curl  her  lips. 

"You  will  excuse  me,"  she  says  gently,  taking  a  step 
forward,  "  if  I  withdraw  to  see  Madame,  your  grandmother, 
before  she  retires  for  the  night." 

"  Most  willingly  "  returns  Muriel,  sweetly,  but  insolently. 
She  acknowledges  Madame's  graceful  salutation,  and  then, 
as  if  dismissing  her  from  her  thoughts  as  from  her  pres- 
ence, drops  languidly  upon  the  lounge  near  her,  and  takes 
up  one  of  the  periodicals  upon  the  small  table  at  her  el- 
bow. 

Lord  Branksmere  opens  the  door  for  Madame,  and  a 
few  words  pass  between  them  on  the  threshold.  His  tone 
is  low,  but  Muriel  cannot  fail  to  understand  that  it  is 
apologetic.  She  shrugs  her  shoulders  slightly,  and  turns 
over  a  leaf  with  a  little  unnecessary  quickness,  then  the 


50  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

door  is  closed,  and  Branksmere  coming  back  to  the  fire, 
stands  looking  down  at  her. 

"You  look  pale.  I  hope  you  haven't  taken  a  chill,"  he 
says  at  last,  politely.  "Walking  through  the  night  air  is 
always  a  little  dangerous." 

"  Not  to  me.  It  was  a  usual  custom  with  me  to  go  into 

the  garden  after  dinner  before  my When  I  lived  at 

home." 

A  pause. 

"  Don't  you  think  you  will  have  to  do  a  considerable 
amount  of  explanation,  now  and  then,  if  you  persist  in 
refusing  to  remember  that  this  is  now  your  home  ? "  asks 
Branksmere,  with  some  irritation,  badly  suppressed. 

No  answer.  She  turns  over  another  page  and  goes  on 
reading  as  though  he  had  not  spoken. 

"  You  find  it  dull  here,  no  doubt."  This  time  the  irrita- 
tion is  not  suppressed  at  all. 

"Here?"  lifting  her  eyes  languidly,  inquiringly.  "A 
foolish  accusation.  One  could  hardly  call  a  place  dull  on 
a  few  hours'  acquaintance." 

"  You  could,  evidently.  You  were  hardly  here  one  hour 
when  you  left  it." 

"  I  was  naturally  anxious  to  see  my  brothers  and  sis- 
ters." 

"  I  had  no  idea,"  with  a  slight  sneer,  "  that  you  were  so 
devoted  to  your  brothers  and  sisters." 

"  It  is  possible  that  time  will  even  further  enlarge  your 
ideas  about  me,"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  indifferently. 
She  leans  back  in  her  chair,  and  again  has  recourse  to  her 
magazine. 

"  You  remember,  perhaps,  that  we  are  expecting  some 
people  on  Thursday  ?  " 

"  Yes.  People  ?  Oh,  of  course  ;  your  guests  you 
mean." 

She  has  roused  herself  with  seeming  difficulty  from  her 
story,  and  now  returns  to  it. 

"  Your  guests  rather." 

No  answer. 

"  I  hope,  at  least,  you  will  like  the  selection  I  have 
made." 

"  I  hope  so,"  absently. 

"  Next  time  you  can  make  your  own." 

"  I  dare  say." 

"I  think,  perhaps,  it  would  be  advisable  that«you  should 
know  who  is  coming,"  says  Lord  Branksmere,  irritably. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  51 

"M — ?"     It  is  evident  she  is  not  listening. 

"  May  I  beg  that  you  will  give  me  your  attention  for  a 
few  minutes  ?  "  His  tone  this  time  is  very  much  louder, 
and  Lady  Branksmere  lifts  to  him  a  glance  of  calm  sur- 
prise. 

"  Ah  !  you  wish  to  talk — is  that  it  ?  "  she  asks  in  a  bored 
voice,  with  an  air  of  intense  resignation,  laying  her  maga- 
zine upon  her  knees.  "Well?"  she  looks  at  him  lan- 
guidly. 

"I  wish  certainly  to  interest  you  in  the  affairs  of  your 
household." 

"  If  that  is  so,  you  are  fortunate.  I  am  already  deeply 
interested.  I  am,  indeed,  more  than  interested  ;  I  am 
curious — May  I  ask  who  is  this  woman — this  housekeeper 
— this  Madame — who  has  just  quitted  the  room,  and  who 
a  few  hours  ago  welcomed  me  so  kindly  to  my  own 
house  ?" 

"  She  is  Madame  von  Thirsk.  She  can  hardly  be  called 
a  housekeeper.  She  is  a  great  friend,  a  very  tender  friend 
of  my  grandmother's." 

"A  rare  friendship  !  May  and  December  do  not,  as  a 
rule,  lie  in  each  other's  bosoms.  Twenty  years  ago  Lady 
Branksmere  must  have  been  pretty  much  what  she  is  now. 
Twenty  years  ago  her  friend  must  have  been  a  little  girl 
of  twelve  or  so.  It  is  very  charming,  very  picturesque, 
quite  a  small  romance.  And  this  friend  ;  -you  pay  her  ? " 

"  Certainly  not."  A  dark  flush  rises  to  his  forehead. 
"Good  Heavens;  no,"  lie  continues  in  a  shocked  tone. 
"  She  is  a  very  rich  woman.  She  stays  here  for  love  of 
Lady  Branksmere." 

"  Ah  !  For  love  of  Lady  Branksmere  !  She  looks  well- 
born, yet  she  resigns  the  world  to  take  care  of  an  old 
woman.  It  is  a  marvellous  devotion." 

"  Yes.  A  marvellous  devotion,"  repeats  Branksmere,  in 
a  low  tone. 

"  She  seems  clever,  too.  Has  she  "  (with  a  little  sneer), 
"  befriended  your  poor  grandmother  long  ?  " 

"She  has  been  with  her,  off  and  on,  for  the  last  seven 
years  I  should  say.  She  is  quite  an  old  friend  with  us  all." 

"With  your  sister-in-law,  for  example  ?  " 

A  shade  crosses  Branksmere's  face. 

"  Of  course,  they  have  met,  but  not  often.  I  have  been 
so  seldom  at  Branksmere,  and  Lady  Anne  rarely  comes 
here  in  my  absence." 

"  She,  too,  likes  this  Madame  ?" 


52  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"I  really  can't  say,"  impatiently.  "What  an  interest 
you  take  in  her." 

"  Well  ?  "  is  not  that  what  you  desired  a  moment  since, 
that  I  should  look  after  the  affairs  of  my  household  ?  A 
good  wife,"  with  a  curl  of  her  red  lips,  "should  follow  her 

husband's  lead,  and  you By  the  bye,  you  seemed 

quite  engrossed  with  the  conversation  of  your  grand- 
mother's friend,  as  I  came  up  the  balcony  steps  a  little 
while  ago." 

"Did  I  ?  Probably  she  was  telling  me  somethimg  about 
Lady  Branksmere." 

Muriel  throwing  back  her  head  against  the  soft  crimson 
silk  of  the  cushions  laughs  aloud.  At  this  moment  it  oc- 
curs to  her  how  little  she  really  cares. 

"You  are  an  excellent  grandson,"  she  says,  looking  at 
him  through  half-closed  lids.  "  Few  would  lose  themselves 
so  entirely  as  you  appeared  to  do,  in  a  recital  of  their 
grandmother's  ailments,  even  with  a  handsome  woman." 

"All  this  is  beside  the  mark,"  exclaims  Branksmere, 
abruptly.  "  Why  I  drew  you  away  from  your  book  was  to 
explain  to  you  about  our  guests  of  Thursday  next.  I  hope 
at  least,  you  will  like  my  sister-in-law,  Lady  Anne." 

"You  forget  I  have  already  learned  to  do  that.  Lady 
Anne  is  one  of  the  few  people  I  sincerely  admire.  She  is 
such  a  distinct  contrast  to  myself  that,  if  only  as  a  useful 
study,  I  should  value  her.  There  seems  to  be  no  angles 
about  her  ;  no  corners  to  be  turned.  It  seems  to  me  in 
every  phase  of  life  she  would  be  possible." 

"  She  is  admirable  always.  Her  girlhood,  her  wom- 
anhood, her  widowhood,  have  been  alike  without  re- 
proach." 

"Talking  of  her  reminds  me  that  to-night  I  met  some- 
one else  who  is  likely  to  suit  me.  I  allude  to  my  brother's 
wife,  Mrs.  Daryl.  She  seems  a  little  crude,  a  little  brusque, 
perhaps,  but  very  desirable." 

"  I  am  glad  you  have  found  some  one  so  much  to  your 
taste  so  near  you — so  near  Branksmere." 

"Yes,  it  is  an  advantage.  Well!" — carelessly — "who 
else  is  coming  ?  " 

"The  Primroses,  the  Vyners,  Mr.  Halkett,  Captain 
Staines,  and " 

Lady  Branksmere  knocking  her  arm  in  some  awkward 
fashion  against  the  elbow  of  her  chair,  her  magazine  falls 
to  the  ground.  Her  husband  stoops  to  pick  it  up,  and  as 
he  hands  it  to  her  is  a  little  struck  by  some  indefinable 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  53 

change  in  her  face.  Are  her  eyes  brighter,  or  her  lips 
paler,  or  is  it  that  — 

"  You  look  feverish.  I  was  right  about  that  chill  after 
all,"  he  says,  slowly. 

"  If  it  pleases  you,  think  so,"  returns  she  in  a  quick 
hard  tone.  "  Go  on  ;  Mr.  Halkett,  Captain — Staines  did 
you  say  ?  " 

"  You  should  know  him.  He  was  staying  down  here  last 
autumn  with  some  people,  I  believe.  I  know  little  of  him 
myself  ;  met  him  in  Brussels  about  a  year  ago,  and  yester- 
day, in  Piccadilly,  came  face  to  face  with  him  again.  He 
happened  to  mention  the  Vyners,  so.  as  he  is  an  agreeable 
sort  of  fellow — good  connections  and  all  that — I  asked  him 
to  come  to  us  for  a  fortnight  or  so.  He  seemed  reluctant, 
I  thought.  But  I  suggested  to  him  that  the  commence- 
ment of  the  season  is  always  dull,  and  that  a  week  or  so  in 
the  country  would  regulate  him  for  it." 

Lady  Branksmere,  gazing  straight  into  the  fire,  with  her 
hands  tightly  clasped,  makes  no  reply  to  this.  Her  statu- 
esque face  has  grown  a  little  more  immovable.  Her  pose 
is  so  calm  that  she  scarcely  seems  to  breathe  ;  only  the  rise 
and  fall  of  the  pearls  round  her  white  throat  betoken  the 
life  within  her. 

When  the  silence  has  grown  rather  oppressive,  she  rouses 
herself  sufficiently  to  break  it. 

"  There  are  others  ?"  she  asks. 

"  Lilian  Amyot  and  your  cousin  Paulyn  :  Briersly. 
You  know  you  refused  to  invite  any  of  your  own  friends,  so 
I  was  thrown  on  my  own  resources." 

"  I  know  that.  It  was  an  absurd  time  to  ask  anyone, 
with  the  season  almost  begun." 

"As  they  are  asked" — stiffly — "I  hope  you  will  make 
them  welcome." 

"  Even  if  I  didn't  I  expect  it  would  hardly  matter  in  this 
perfectly  managed  menagb  " — with  a  flash  from  her  large 
eyes.  "  This  Madame  De — Von — whatever  she  is,  has  been 
at  the  head  of  your  affairs  for  so  long  that  it  seems  a  pity 
to  disturb  her." 

"  I  fail  to  understand  you,"  haughtily.  "  Madame  von 
Thirsk  has  certainly  been  useful,  but " 

"  Therefore  why  should  she  not  go  on  being  useful  to 
the  end  of  the  chapter  ?  Why  defraud  yourself  of  her  val- 
uable services  for  the  sake  of "  She  breaks  off  impa- 
tiently, with  all  the  air  of  one  who  has  been  giving  way  to 
speech  for  the  mere  sake  of  filling  up  a  void,  but  who  is 


54  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

hardly  aware  of  what  she  is  saying:  "Why  did  you  ask 
these  people  here  ? "  she  cries,  turning  now  upon  Branks- 
mere  with  sudden  passion. 

"  When  you  declined  to  spend  your  season  in  Park  Lane 
I  thought  it  prudent  to  fill  Branksmere." 

"  But  why — why  ?  "  feverishly. 

"  Fearing  " — dryly — "  as  I  said  before,  that  you  would 
find  this  place  dull." 

"  I  didn't  expect  to  find  it  duller  than  any  other  place." 
Her  passion  has  died  away  from  her,  and  the  old  insolent 
expression  has  again  crept  round  her  lips. 

"  Meaning  it  would  be  dull  anywhere  with  me  ?  " 

Muriel  shrugs  her  shoulders,  but  makes  no  reply. 

"  Is  that  your  meaning  ?  " 

"Would  you  compel  me  to  make  you  a  rude  answer  ?" 
asks  she,  looking  full  at  him  with  a  contemptuous  smile. 
Her  defiance  maddens  him. 

"I  should  prefer  a  rude  one  to  none  at  all."  he  exclaims, 
with  a  sudden  burst  of  fury.  "Your  insolent  silence  is 
more  than  I  can  endure." 

"And  /should  prefer  to  make  none,"  returns  she  smil- 
ingly. "  How  shall  we  decide  ?  " 

Cool  and  composed  she  rises  from  her  seat  and  looks  at 
the  ormolu  affair  on  the  chimney-piece,  that  is  ticking 
loudly  as  if  to  warn  them  of  the  passage  of  time. 

"Almost  eleven  !  Too  late  for  further  discussion,  how- 
ever pleasant,"  she  says,  calmly.  "Good-night,  my  lord." 

She  waits  as  if  in  anticipation  of  a  courteous  word  from 
him,  but  receiving  none,  lifts  her  brows,  and  walks  delib- 
erately out  of  the  room. 


CHAPTER   VII. 

"  Now  will  I  show  myself  to  have  more  of  the  serpent  than  the  dove." 

"SUSPICION  is  a  heavy  armor." 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  disturbed  you  ;  I  believed  the  room 
empty,"  says  Madame  von  Thirsk  with  a  little  start,  pre- 
paring to  close  the  library  door  behind  her  again. 

"No,  stay.  As  you  are  here,  perhaps  you  will  let  me 
consult  you  about  these  people  who  are  coming  to- 
mori*ow."  Lord  Branksmere  looks  up  at  her  with  a  frown 
born  of  anxious  thought.  He  pushes  away  from  him  the 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  55 

letter  he  had  been  writing,  but  on  which  his  thoughts  were 
hardly  concentrated,  being  much  more  occupied  upon  a  re- 
sume of  the  last  night's  conversation  with  his  wife. 

"  To  consult  with  me  ?  "  says  Madame,  opening  wide  her 
velvety  eyes.  "  But,  surely,  there  is  now  Lady  Branks- 
inere  ? " 

"  Who  knows  nothing  of  them — whereas  you  have  met 
them  all  before,"  returns  Branksmere,  irritably.  "  To  her, 
they  will  be  strangers  ;  to  you,  with  the  keen  sense  of  an- 
alysis that  belongs  to  you,  their  idiosyncrasies,  their  vari- 
ous desires,  will  be  known,  and  I  want  them  to  be  comfort- 
able ;  to  feel  satisfied  with  the  new  regime"  He  is  speak- 
ing hurriedly,  almost,  as  it  seems  to  her,  a  little  nervously. 

"Still,  it  appears  in  a  degree  foolish,  doesn't  if  ?"  asks 
she,  trifling  with  a  pretty  oak-ornament  on  the  table.  "  If 
your  wife  is  to  know  these  people  later  on,  it  would  be 
better  she  should  be  made  tut  fait  with  their  dispositions  as 
soon  as  possible."  She  looks  up  suddenly.  "  Where  is 
she  then  ?  I  knew  she  was  out,  but  I  believed  you  were 
with  her." 

It  is  a  little  cruel,  and  Branksmere  gives  way  before  it. 
He  flushes  hotly. 

"You  must  remember  she  is  as  yet  a  little  new  to  every- 
thing," he  says,  in  a  constrained  tone.  "  And  it  is  only 
natural  that  she  should  want,  just  at  first,  to  see  a  good 
deal  of  her  own  people.  Let  her  rest  herself  so.  You  can 
help  me  to-day  in  her  absence,  as  you  have  always  done." 

A  quick  gleam  lights  her  eyes.  She  lifts  them  to  Branks- 
mere's  face.  There  is  in  them  a  swift  gleam  of  angry  but 
tender  passion  that  it  is  as  well  he  does  not  see. 

"As  I  have  always  done,"  she  repeats  slowly.  Then, 
with  a  change  of  manner  swift  as  lightning,  she  flings  her- 
self into  a  chair,  and  draws  toward  her  ink  and  paper. 

"  Now  for  the  names  of  your  friends,"  she  cried.  "  You 
forget  I  don't  even  know  so  much.  Lady  Anne  !"  writing, 
as  he  dictates  to  her — "the  Vyners,  Primroses,  George 
Halkett,  Mrs.  Amyot,  Captain  St —  She  drops  her  pen 

and  stares  up  at  him — "  Staines?"  she  asks,  incredulously. 

"  Staines.  Yes.  Tali  fair  man  in  the  Tenth  ;  or  was  it 
the  Tenth  ?  Do  you  know  him  ?" 

"Not  personally.  You  will  remember,"  paling,  "how 
complete  is  my  seclusion  as  a  rule  when  living  at  Branks- 
mere ;  so  complete  that  my  absences  have  gone  unre- 
marked. But  yet,  gossip  reaches  me,  the  most  reserved. 
I  know  something  of  this  man." 


56  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Well  ? "  He  waits  for  a  reply,  but  nothing  comes. 
"Anything  bad  ?" 

"So  far  ;  no." 

"An  answer  worthy  of  a  sibyl."  He  draws  his  chair 
closer  to  the  table.  A  faint  smile  curls  his  lips.  "Now 
for  your  news,"  he  says,  banteringly. 

"  It  is  unimportant,  perliaps  !  He  was  staying  down  here 
with  the  Adairs  for  a  month  or  so  last  autumn." 

"  All  last  autumn,  as  I  understand,  and  far  into  the  win- 
ter. But  that  is  not  a  crime,  is  it  ? " 

"  Did  I  suggest  crime  ?  "  The  expression  in  her  large 
deep  eyes  is  curious.  "  That  first  insinuation  of  it  rests 
with  you"  She  leans  toward  him  across  the  table,  and 
with  outstretched  arm  and  fingers  attracts  his  attention. 
"  Remember  !  "  she  says  in  a  low  tone. 

"  My  dear  Thekla,  what  ?  You  grow  tragic.  You  re- 
mind one  of  that  everlasting  Charles  the  First.  And  yet 
we  were  not  talking  of  him,  but  of  Staines  and  his  so- 
journ with  the  Adairs  last  autumn.  He  is  a  great  friend 
of  theirs." 

"  Is  he  ?  He  is  then  probably  a  favorite  of  the  gods,  and 
all  men  worship  him.  The  Daryls  among  others." 

"Yes.  He  seemed  to  know  everybody  round  here.  And 
now  that  I  think  of  it,  he  specially  mentioned  the  Daryls." 

"  He  shows  talent,"  says  Madame  von  Thirsk,  with  a 
very  slow  smile. 

"  He  has  been  unfortunate  enough  to  anger  you  in  some 
way." 

"Pardon  me.  We  have  never  met.  I  should  not  know 

this  Monsieur Staines  is  it  not  ?  if  he  were  shown 

into  this  room  unannounced." 

"Then  you  are  unjust  to  him  without  reason." 

"Yes.  But  what  have  I  said,  then  ?"  asks  she,  laying 
her  beautiful  hand  protestingly  upon  her  breast  with  a 
rather  foreign  gesture. 

"  It  is  your  manner,  your  whole  air.  As  for  Staines 
himself,  I  know  little  of  him  ;  so  little,  that  your  innuen- 
does fall  on  sterile  soil.  When  I  asked  him  to  come  here 
he  happened  to  mention  having  been  here  before.  That 
is  how  I  know  of  his  intimacy  witli  the  Adairs." 

"  Did  he  mention  anything  else  ?  His  penchant,  for  Lady 
Branksmere  among  other  things." 

She  has  risen  to  her  feet  and  has  turned  a  white  deter- 
mined face  to  Branksmere. 

He.  too,  has  risen. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  57 

"  Was  that  so  ? "  he  asks  in  a  terrible  tone  ;  and  then  all 
at  once  he  recovers  himself.  He  lifts  his  head  and  laughs 
aloud.  "  Is  that  all  ?  "  he  asks  derisively — "  Poor  devil ! — 
why,  what  a  mountain  you  would  make  out  of  your  mole- 
hill." 

"Don't  invite  that  man  here,  Branksmere,"  says  Mad- 
ame, throwing  out  her  arms  as  though  to  ward  off  some- 
thing, and  advancing  a  step  nearer.  "  Be  warned  in 
time." 

"  Your  warning  comes  too  late,"  lightly.  "  I  have  in- 
vited him.  I  expect  him  by  the  five  train  to-morrow. 
Tut  !  you  forget  Muriel's  beauty  !  "  Her  face  pales,  and 
her  hands,  still  outheld,  drop  and  clasp  each  other  vehe- 
mently. "Men  must  see  it.  If  I  were  to  close  my  doors 
to  all  who  have  bowed  at  Muriel's  shrine,  I  expect  I  should 
know  but  few  in  the  county." 

"  I  would  not  counsel  you  to  shut  your  doors  on  those 
who  had  loved  her,"  says  Madame  von  Thirsk,  in  a  low, 
meaning  tone.  Her  eyes  are  lowered,  her  supple  fingers 
are  playing  inconsequently  with  a  paper-knife  ;  there  is 
something  in  her  whole  air,  subtle,  untranslatable,  but  sug- 
gestive of  evil  that  fires  the  blood. 

"  On  whom  then  ?  "  demands  he,  fiercely. 

But  Madame  von  Thirsk  seems  wrapt  in  thoughts  of 
her  own. 

"Your  wife,"  she  continues  slowly,  not  noticing,  or  else 
ignoring  his  burst  of  temper,  "  is  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful women  I  have  ever  seen."  She  pauses  here  and  brings 
her  teeth  together.  There  is  a  hesitation  pregnant  with 
emotion,  yet  it  passes  ;  and  but  that  it  leaves  her  nostrils 
dilated,  and  that  she  drops  a  book  she  has  been  holding 
down  upon  the  table  with  a  gesture  that  is  almost  ungov- 
erned,  one  would  scarcely  be  aware  of  it. 

She  has  grown  deadly  pale,  -but  presently  is  calmness  it- 
self, and  very  nearly  indifferent. 

"  If  this  man  once  loved  her,  why  expose  him  to  her  fasci- 
nations for  the  second  time?"  she  says,  with  veiled  eyes 
and  an  extreme  quietude  of  manner  that  should  have 
warned  him. 

"  It  is  all  mere  gossip,"  declares  Branksmere,  walking 
impatiently  up  and  down  the  room. 

"It  may  be  so.  Yet  gossip  hurts.  What  if  this  gossip,  you 
so  despise,  had  gone  farther  ?  " 

"  As  how  ?"  He  stops  short  and  regards  her  threaten- 
ingly. 


58  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  What  if  it  had  been  "  said  she,  "  your  wife — your  wife, 
Branksmere  ! — had  loved  him  !" 

Branksmere  with  a  sudden  imprecation  turns  upon  her. 

"I  warn  you  !  "  he  exclaims  in  a  voice  full  of  concentrated 
passion,  "  1  desire  you  not  to  go  too  far.  I  will  have  no 
word  breathed  against  Lady  Branksmere  !  " 

Madame  makes  a  movement  as  if  to  speak,  then  shrugs 
her  shoulders  and  crushes  the  desire. 

"  No.  Not  one  word,"  she  answers  deliberately.  "  It 
was  foolish  of  you,  my  friend,  to  presuppose  the  word  was 
there  !  Yet,  hear  me,  Branksmere."  She  draws  nearer, 
and  with  folded  arms  looks  gravely  up  at  him.  "After  all 
that  has  passed  between  us  two,  surely  I  have  the  right  to 
speak  one  warning  sentence.  Take  it  to  heart.  I  tell  you 
it  is  madness  to  ask  that  man  to  your  house." 

"  A  madness  I  refuse  to  recognize,"  returns  he,  coldly. 

"As  you  will,  of  course,"  throwing  out  her  hands  with  a 
little  foreign  gesture.  "  But  there  is  much  wisdom  in  the 
saying,  that  '  prevention  is  better  than  cure.'  " 

"  There  is  little  wisdom  in  doubting  ant's  wife  without 
cause." 

Madame  laughs. 

"Ah  !  you  have  been  too  long  abroad!"  she  says,  with 
downcast  eyes. 

Lord  Branksmere,  going  over  to  the  window,  flings  it 
wide  open.  The  room  is  growing  insufferably  hot. 

"  You  would  have  me  believe  something,"  he  says  at  last 
in  a  stifled  tone.  "  What  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  said  as  much  as  I  intend  to  say.  For 
all  I  know  the  mischief  may  be  past  and  gone — and — // 
may  not !  If  I  were  less  your  friend  I  should  say  less.  But 
last  night — something  in  her  manner — I  hardly  know  what 
— but  it  made  me  fear  for  you.  And  think,"  with  a  sudden 
flash  from  her  dark  eyes, "  how  it  was  she  spoke  of  home,  and 
where  she  placed  it !  Not  here.  Not  here,  Branksmere  !  " 

"  How  you  distort  things,"  exclaims  he  ;  but  he  writhes 
a  little  beneath  her  words.  "The  house  that  has  been 
home  for  the  first  twenty  years  of  one's  life  is  naturally 
home  to  the  end.  In  time  this  place,  too,  will  become 
dear,  and "  His  voice  dies  away.  There  is  some  me- 
lancholy in  it. 

"  Ah  !  So  ?  "  murmurs  Madame.  "  And  she  is  there  now. 
In  the  present  home,  eh  ? " 

"  Yes,"  returns  Branksmere,  shortly. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  59 

But  she  is  not.  She  has  come  back  from  her  morning 
visit  to  the  twins,  and  is  now  making  a  tour  of  the  Castle 
with  old  Mrs.  Stout,  the  housekeeper,  as  cicerone.  The 
galleries,  the  reception-rooms,  and  all  the  principal  parts 
of  the  house  are  known  to  her  of  old,  but  with  the  idle 
curiosity  of  a  child,  she  is  now  wandering  aimlessly  through 
disused  upper-rooms,  and  peering  idly  into  dainty  boudoirs, 
and  examining,  with  a  leisurely  interest,  the  spacious  apart- 
ments so  soon  to  be  occupied  by  her  unknown  guests. 

Mrs.  Stout,  who  is  as  discursive  as  she  is  fleshy,  is  hold- 
ing forth  in  a  rambling  fashion  about  all  the  Branksmeres 
dead  and  gone,  both  those  under  whom  she  has  served  and 
those  defunct  before  her  time — which  has  been  indefinitely 
prolonged.  Her  extremely  engaging  conversation  brings 
them  presently  to  the  passage  that  leads  to  the  apartments 
of  the  Dowager.  They  are  situated  in  a  side  wing,  some- 
what apart  from  the  rest  of  the  house,  an  excrescence  of  a 
later  date,  that  juts  out  from  the  northern  end  in  a  rather 
inconsequent  way.  It  is  a  wing  of  large  dimensions,  and 
as  old  Lady  Branksmere's  rooms  can  be  counted  on  two 
fingers,  it  occurs  to  Muriel  that  she  would  like  to  investi- 
gate those  beyond  the  Dowager's  domain.  She  makes  a 
step,  therefore,  into  the  passage. 

"  Her  ladyship  does  not  receive  to-day,"  says  the  house- 
keeper, "  but  no  doubt  if  you,  my  lady,  desire  to  see  her, 
she " 

"  Not  to-day,"  says  Muriel.  "  But  I  should  like  to  visit 
the  rooms  beyond.  This  part  of  the  house  looks  so  strange, 
so  mysterious,  so  cut  off  from  the  rest  of  it,  that  I  have  a 
strange  longing  to  make  myself  acquainted  with  it." 

The  corridor  leading  to  Lady  Branksmere's  room  is  .cut 
off  from  the  outer  gallery  by  a  huge  baize  door  concealed 
by  a  falling  curtain  of  faded  tapestry.  Beyond  these  rooms 
lies  another  door  also  hidden  by  a  drooping  curtain.  Muriel, 
as  she  speaks,  moves  toward  it,  and,  laying  her  hand  upon 
the  handle  of  the  door,  tries  to  open  it.  It  resists  her  ef- 
forts. 

"  The  keys,"  she  says,  turning  rather  impatiently  to  the 
housekeeper. 

"I  haven't  them,  my  lady.  The  rooms  beyond  belong  to 
Madame  Thirsk.  No  one  is  ever  allowed  to  enter  them," 
replies  Mrs.  Stout,  with  an  odd  glance  at  her  mistress,  "  ex- 
cept Mrs.  Brooks."  Mrs.  Brooks  is  the  Dowager's  attendant. 

"  But  there  must  be  six  or  seven  rooms  in  this  wing," 
questions  Muriel,  coloring  warmly. 


60  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Seven,  my  lady." 

"  Surely  Madame  von  Thirsk  does  not  require  them  all." 

"  Apparently  she  does,  my  lady.  I  have  been  here  now 
close  on  six  years,  and  no  one  has  ever  gone  into  them  save 
Madame  herself  or  Mrs.  Brooks.  They  do  say  as  how  it  is 
haunted,  but  that  of  course  is  not  for  your  ladyship  to  be- 
lieve." Mrs.  Stout  drops  a  respectful  curtsey  and  a  sec- 
ond glance  at  Muriel  that  declares  her  own  belief  in  it  at 
all  events,  and  that  she  could  say  a  good  deal  more  on  the 
subject  if  pressed. 

"Haunted!  By  what?"  asks  Muriel,  with  some  faint 
show  of  interest. 

"  Ah  !  That  is  what  no  one  knows,  my  lady.  There 
have  only  been  footsteps  heard  and — and  screams  at  odd 
intervals.  But  the  story  goes  that  a  former  Lady  of 
Brankstnere  flung  herself  from  one  of  the  windows  in  this 
part  of  the  house,  because,  poor  lady,  she  was  forbidden 
to  see  her  young  —  that  is — ahem  ! — the  gentleman  she 
fancied,"  winds  up  Mrs.  Stout,  with  an  apologetic  cough. 

"  Locked  up  by  the  orthodox  cruel  parent,  no  doubt," 
says  Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  half  smile. 

"  Well,  not  exactly,  ma'am.  It  was  a  cruel  husband  that 
time,"  murmurs  Mrs.  Stout,  mildly. 

"  Husband ! " 

"  Yes — begging  your  ladyship's  pardon !  There  was  a 
husband,  sure  enough,  but  it  appears  the  poor  creature 
didn't  take  to  him  much,  but  had  a  hankering  like  after  an 
old  lover  of  her's,  as  was  most  natural." 

"Take  care,  Mrs.  Stout,"  laughs  Muriel,  carelessly — 
making  a  weak  effort  to  smother  a  yawn.  "  I  doubt  your 
morals  are  not  altogether  sound." 

"  I  think  time  will  prove  you  wrong  there,  my  lady,"  re- 
turns Mrs.  Stout,  stiffly,  crossing  her  arms  on  her  highly 
developed  bosom  with  a  primness  not  to  be  surpassed. 
"  Immorality  has  never  been  attributed  to  Jane  Stout!" 
She  sets  her  lips  into  a  round  O,  and  flickers  her  lids  rap- 
idly. 

"  No.  One  can  quite  understand  that — poor  Jane  Stout ! " 
returns  Lady  Branksmere,  laughing  again,  as  she  casts  an 
amused  glance  at  the  housekeeper's  full,  fat  face.  "  But 
to  your  tale.  I  will  not  be  spared  one  ghastly  detail." 

"  My  lord  could  tell  you  all  about  it  far  better  than  I 
can,  madam  ;  but  the  end  of  it  was  that  the  miserable  lady 
threw  herself  out  of  one  of  the  windows  on  a  starlight 
night,  and  her  body  was  found  next  morning  in  the  stone 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  61 

courtyard  beneath,  all  crushed  and  mangled,  and  so  dis- 
figured that  they  scarcely  knew  her." 

"A  second  Jezebel,"  remarks  Muriel,  with  a  faint  shrug 
expressive  of  disgust.  "  And  now  she  walks  the  earth 
again,  you  tell  me,  in  dainty  raiment  as  when  she  lived  ? — 
or — as  they  picked  her  up  from  the  stained  courtyard  ?" 

"  Who  can  say,  my  lady  ! "  The  housekeeper  shrinks  a 
little  as  if  terror-stricken.  "  Tis  only  known  for  certain 
that  sometimes,  on  moonlight  nights,  one  can  hear  an  un- 
earthly yell  that  comes  from  behind  this  closed  door.  It  is 
(lowering  her  voice  instinctively)  the  cry  the  poor  soul  gave 
when  falling." 

Mrs.  Stout  looks  fearfully  over  her  shoulder  to  where  the 
shadows  are  darkening  the  gallery  outside.  Muriel  shud- 
ders. 

"  You — did  you  ever  hear  it  ?  "  she  asks.  The  story  has 
begun  to  have  a  fascination  for  her,  as  strange  as  it  is  pro- 
found. 

"  Once,  madam,"  whispers  the  housekeeper,  reluctantly. 
"  But  the  dowager-lady  is  sometimes  a  little  nervous, 

Brooks  tells  me,  and  I  thought  perhaps "  She  pauses 

embarrassed. 

"  That  the  sound  came  from  her,  or  else  from  a  heated 
imagination,"  finishes  Muriel  for  her,  smiling  again.  "  Well, 
the  thought  is  uncanny,  however  it  goes." 

She  shakes  off  the  grewsome  feeling  that  had  made  its 
own  of  her,  and  once  more  glances  at  the  carefully  guarded 
door. 

"  I  must  then  apply  to  Madame  von  Thirsk  for  the  keys 
of  this  wing  ?"  she  asks,  slowly. 

"Yes,  my  lady  ;  or  to  his  lordship." 

Muriel  turns  a  cold  face  to  the  woman,  and  then  as  she 
is  about  to  speak,  checks  herself  abruptly.  There  is 
haughty  astonishment  in  her  glance,  and  Mrs.  Stout,  who 
in  truth  had  spoken  without  motive,  grows  hot  and  un- 
comfortable beneath  it. 

At  this  moment  the  heavy  baize-covered  door  is  flung 
open,  and  Madame  von  Thirsk  steps  softly  out  into  the 
corridor  ! 


62  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


CHAPTER  VIII. 

"That  practis'd  falsehood  under  saintly  shew, 
Deep  malice  to  conceal  couch'd  with  revenge.'' 

"Words  are  like  leaves,  and  where  they  most  abound 
Much  fruit  of  sense  beneath  is  rarely  found." 

"  You  ! "  The  word  falls  from  her  as  though  without 
her  knowledge.  Her  eyes  are  fixed  coldly  upon  M  uriel.  She 
is  so  amazed  that  for  the  moment  her  self-possession  for- 
sakes her,  and  she  speaks  with  a  total  forgetfulness  of  the 
suavity  so  dear  to  her. 

"Yes,  it  is  I,"  returns  Muriel,  calmly.  "I  was  anxious 
to  see  this  part  of  the  house,  but  Mrs.  Stout  has  told  me 
that  it  is  to  you  I  must  come  for  the  keys  of  it." 

Mrs.  Stout,  with  a  discretion  that  does  her  credit,  has 
dropped  a  curtsey  and  is  out  of  sight,  upon  the  appear- 
ance of  Madame. 

"  It  is  true  that  my  rooms  lie  beyond  here,"  answers 
Madame,  now,  with  a  little  friendly  nod  between  each  word. 
She  has  quite  recovered  herself,  and  as  she  speaks  comes 
a  step  or  two  nearer  to  Muriel,  and  then  turning,  proceeds 
very  deliberately  to  lock  the  door  behind  her.  The  action 
is  significant,  and  Lady  Branksmere  draws  her  next  breath 
somewhat  quickly. 

"  Your  rooms.  Yes,"  she  says,  with  a  coolness  that, 
under  the  circumstances,  is  very  nearly  perfect.  "  I 
would  not  interfere  with  them,  as  long  as  you  remain 
here  ;  but  Mrs.  Stout  tells  me  there  are  at  least  seven 
apartments  in  this  wing." 

"  Six,"  corrects  Madame,  amiably,  and  with  a  full  com- 
plement of  the  most  charming  non-comprehension. 

"What  I  wish  to  see,"  continues  Muriel,  stolidly,  "are 
the  rooms  out  of  these  six  that  you  do  not  occupy.  Your 
boudoir  ;  your  bedroom  ;  are  your  own,  but  the  others  ?" 

"  The  others,"  echoes  Madame,  with  an  expressive  little 
shrug.  "  Ah  !  You  do  not  know,  perhaps,  that  I  do  a  lit- 
tle dilettante  painting.  Just  quite  a  very  little.  But  it  is 
a  joy  to  me,  and  I  hate  that  the  servants  should  meddle 
with  my  affairs,  and " 

"  But  six  rooms  for  painting,"  interrupts  Lady  Branks- 
mere, thoughtfully,  but  ruthlessly. 

"Not   altogether,  you   will   understand."      Then,  with 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.         »  63 

graceful  politeness,  "you  desire  the  wing,  perhaps?  It 
has  been,  up  to  this,  apportioned  to  your  husband's  grand- 
mother, she  being,  unfortunately,  attached  to  it  for  many 
reasons — and  to  me  it  is  convenient,  as  being  near  to  her, 
so  that  at  any  moment,  night  or  day,  I  may  reacli  her 
without  disturbing  the  household  ;  but,  if  you  wish  it " — 
blandly — "  we  can,  of  course,  move,  we " 

"I  do  not  wish  to  disturb  Lady  Branksmere  in  anyway," 
protests  Muriel,  haughtily.  "  I  merely  expressed  a  desire 
to  see  this  portion  of  my  own  house."  There  is  distinct 
expectancy  in  her  manner,  but  Madame  refuses  to  hear  it. 

"Ah  !"  she  says,  with  an  agreeable  little  smile,  and  slips 
the  key  she  holds  into  her  pocket.  She  lets  her  lashes 
fall  over  her  eyes.  There  is  something  irritating  in  this 
downward  glance,  something  baffling  in  the  very  way  the 
meaningless  monosyllable  drops  from  her  lips. 

As  though  oppressed  by  the  smoothness  of  her,  Lady 
Branksmere  throws  up  her  head  with  a  brusqueness  for- 
eign to  her  nature.  But  there  is  something  healthy  at 
least  in  the  quick  clear  tones  that  ring  through  the  corri- 
dor. 

"It  appears  then  that  I  cannot?"  she  says,  with  a  pale 
smile. 

"  If,  indeed,  I  might  still  consider  this  small  portion  of 
your  house"  (with  a  peculiar  bow)  "as  belonging  to  me 
and  my  patient,  Lady  Branksmere,  I  should  be  grateful," 
returns  Madame,  meekly.  Her  eyes  are  still  lowered. 
With  one  small  shapely  brown  hand  she  smooths  down  a 
rebellious  bit  of  the  costly  lace  that  throws  out  the  color 
of  her  gown. 

Lady  Branksmere,  conquered  for  the  moment,  angry  but 
speechless,  makes  her  a  slight  inclination  that  is  imperious 
enough  to  emanate  from  a  sovereign  to  a  subject,  and 
turns  away.  But  in  a  moment  returns. 

"  You  say  the  servants  are  forbidden  to  enter  your 
rooms,"  she  says,  looking  straight  at  Madame.  "  No  one, 
then,  has  access  there,  save  you  ? " 

"And  Mrs.  Brooks.  She  it  is"  (pointedly)  "who  sum- 
mons me  at  night  to  the  bedside  of — my  patient — when 
my  presence  there  is  necessary,  which  "  (with  slow  force) 
"is  very  frequently." 

"Mrs.  Brooks  only?" 

"  I  have  said,"  returns  Madame,  decisively. 

"So?"  says  Lady  Branksmere  with  extreme  contempt. 
"  It  seems  a  pity,  Madame,  you  will  permit  no  one  to  see 


64  *          LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

these  paintings  of  yours,  which,  I  am  sure,  are  well  worth 
a  visit  ! " 

She  turns  away  with  an  insolent  air,  and  goes  down  the 
gallery  with  her  usual  slow,  and  stately  step. 

But  her  heart  is  beating  wildly,  and  a  sense  of  defeat  is 
maddening  her.  Oh,  how  to  get  rid  of  this  woman  !  It  is 
the  one  thought  that  fills  her,  that  torments  her.  It  seems 
it  will  be  a  more  difficult  matter  than  she  first  dreamed  of 
to  turn  her  adrift.  Her  mind  runs  swiftly  to  old  Lady 
Branksmere,  that  aged,  infirm  creature,  whose  sole  com- 
fort lies  in  the  ministrations  of  this  foreign  friend.  By 
what  right  could  she  deprive  this  helpless,  stricken  being 
of  her  last  joy  ?  How  reconcile  it  to  her  conscience  ?  Yet 
that  woman's  insolence  !  The  insolence  of  her !  She  stops 
short  when  she  has  turned  a  corner,  and  is  out  of  sight  of 
her  foe,  and  clinches  her  hands  with  uncontrollable  passion. 
Her  face  flames,  and  then  grows  deadly  pale.  The  keys  ! 
She,  the  mistress,  is  to  demand  them  prettily  from  her,  or 
from  his  lordship  ! 

Suddenly  all  the  passion  dies  from  her  face.  She  grows 
singularly  calm.  But  her  lips,  as  she  moves  onward,  seem 
to  have  taken  a  hard,  stern,  determined  line. 

From  the  south  gallery  comes  the  sound  of  many  voices 
and  much  laughter,  and  the  welcome  clatter  of  cups  and 
saucers  ;  the  breath  of  innumerable  roses,  mingled  with 
the  fragrant  odor  of  the  steaming  tea,  floats  on  the  air. 
The  servants  by ~ mutual  consent  have  been  relegated  to 
limbo,  and  the  men  are  having  a  somewhat  busy  time  of 
it,  carrying  the  little  dainty  Wedgwood  cups,  and  their 
gaudier  sisters  of  Crown  Derby  to  and  fro,  while  paying  a 
gentle  attention  to  the  delicate  hot  cakes  that  are  calling 
aloud  for  notice  from  their  gleaming  tripods. 

A  huge  fire  of  pine  logs  lying  on  the  open  hearth  is 
roaring,  crackling,  in  a  jolly  inconsequent  fashion,  its 
flames  lighting  up  and  bringing  into  prominence  the  ex- 
quisite old  chimney-piece  of  carved  and  blackened  oak 
that  rises  to  the  ceiling.  In  the  deep  cushioned  recesses 
of  the  windows  tall  palms  and  feathery  ferns  are  flourish- 
ing in  monster  pots  of  oriental  ware,  and  well  in  the  dis- 
tance a  stand  of  glorious  daffodils  and  narcissi  are  sending 
forth  a  subtle  perfume. 

A  tall,  lean  old  wolf-hound  is  walking  majestically  up 
and  down  among  the  assembled  guests — from  the  gaudy 
screens  that  cut  off  draughts — from  the  lower  end  of  the 


LADY  BRANKSMERE,  65 

gallery  to  the  dim  tapestry-hangings  that  ornament  the 
other  end — taking  with  a  deep  solemnity  as  his  just  due, 
the  pats  and  pretty  words  that  greet  him  as  he  goes: 

The  walls  are  sparsely  studded  with  priceless  plates  of 
hideous  colors  and  designs,  and  on  a  large  black  rug  a 
little  sleepy  puss  is  snoring  blissfully.  Taken  as  a  whole, 
it  is  a  charming  picture,  and  Lady  Branksrhere,  standing 
on  the  Persian  mat  before  the  fire,  in  a  tea-gowu  of  ancient 
brocade,  completes  it. 

She  is  talking  to  old  Lady  Primrose — a  placid  person 
with  corkscrew  ringlets,  and  a  desirable  son — and  is  smiling 
kindly.  She  is  looking  pale  and  slender  and  extremely 
beautiful.  The  intense  hues  of  the  brocade  throw  out  her 
pallor  and  heighten  the  brilliance  of  her  large  eyes.  She 
is  giving  her  whole  mind  apparently  to  her  conversation 
with  the  old  lady,  who  has  passed  the  bounds  of  hearing,  and 
has  to  be  paid  severe  attention  if  you  wish  her  to  know 
what  you  are  at.  Muriel's  clear  distinct  tones  suit  her  ad- 
mirably, and  almost  awake  within  her  breast  the  delusion 
that  her  ears  are  as  satisfactory  as  those  of  most  people. 

Everybody  is  talking  more  or  less,  and  the  soft  hubbub 
caused  by  the  voices  grows  drowsy.  Somebody  at  the  up- 
per end  of  the  gallery  is  playing  the  piano  very  delicately 
— almost  in  a  whisper  as  it  were — a  fair  woman  of  about 
thirty-three  with  a  charming  face  and  a  quantity  of  loosely 
dressed  golden  hair.  Besides  letting  her  fingers  wander 
tenderly  over  the  notes,  she  is  conversing  in  an  undertone 
with  a  little  man  of  a  rather  comical  exterior,  who  is  bend- 
ing over  her.  This  is  Lord  Primrose  ;  who,  if  Nature  had 
endowed  him  with  corkscrew  ringlets,  would  have  been  the 
image  of  his  mother.  As  she  gets  deeper  into  her  subject 
with  him,  the  music,  perhaps  in  accordance  with  her 
thoughts,  grows  slower  and  slower  until  at  last  it  reaches 
an  andante  pitch. 

"  Lady  Anne  !  Lady  Anne  !  "  calls  a  tall,  ugly  man  with 
a  clever  face,  "is  the  time,  the  place,  the  hour  nothing  to 
you  ?  Your  music  is  always  the  best — but — I  leave  it  to 
you !  Should  one  play  a  funeral  march  amid  the  flesh- 
pots  of  Egypt  ?" 

"Ah!  pardon,  pardon!"  laughs  Lady  Anne,  shrugging 
her  handsome  shoulders.  "But  then,  you  must  remember, 
Mr.  Halkett,  I  was  not  playing  to  you — but  to  Lord  Prim- 
rose. He  likes  dismal  things." 

"  How  we  go  astray.     I  quite  thought  he  liked  you!" 
says  the  ugly  young  man. 
5 


66  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"Growing  up  among  us;"  begins  a  loud  voice  that 
strikes  everyone  dumb  for  a  moment.  It  emanates  from 
a  short,  stout  person  in  a  bonnet  of  a  shape  indescribable. 
It  comes,  indeed,  from  Miss  Mumm,  the  Daryls'  Aunt 
Selina. 

"Good  heavens!  I  quite  thought  it  was  a  dynamite  ex- 
plosion," whispers  the  Hon.  Mrs.  Vyner,  in  her  usual 
affected  lisp.  "  What  a  cruel  voice  !  And  what  is  grow- 
ing up  among  us  ?  Is  it  Primrose  ?  " 

"Not  at  all.  She  is  alluding  to  herself.  She  is  quite  a 
young  thing  yet,"  says  Mr.  Halkett. 

"She  I  Let  her  explain.  She  is  going  on  with  it,"  mur- 
murs Mrs.  Amyot,  holding  up  a  warning  finger. 

"Growing  up  among  us,"  continues  Miss  Mumm,  in 
her  loud,  rasping  tones,  "is  a  most  reprehensible  and  de- 
testable— er " 

"Person?"  suggests  Mr.  Halkett,  considerately. 

"No,  sir!  habit.  A  most  reprehensible  habit  of  drag- 
ging into  frivolous  and  idiotic  conversations  extracts  from 
Holy  Writ !  Such  a  practice  cannot  be  too  heavily  cen- 
sured. The  flesh-pots  of  Egypt  have  just  been  alluded  to. 
Does  anybody  know  where  they  are  first  mentioned  ?  Are 
such  things  to  be  lightly  spoken  of  ?  We  know  " — with  a 
severe  glance  at  Halkett — "who  it  is  who  quotes  Scripture 
for  his  own  ends." 

Everybody  is,  of  course,  delighted. 

"  There  ! "  says  Margery  Daryl,  who,  in  a  big  hat  and  a 
white  gown,  is  looking  as  pretty  as  possible.  "You  see 
what  Aunt  Selina  has  called  you  !  " 

"You  mustn't  condemn  us  all  as  frivolous,  dear  Miss 
Mumm,"  Mrs.  Amyot  is  saying,  in  her  sweetest  way.  She 
is  a  pretty  little  widow,  with  dark  eyes  and  amber  hair,  and 
the  reputation  of  being  a  little — well,  just  a  little — 

"Yes,  Muriel  is  quite  all  I  can  desire,"  says  the  spinster, 
magisterially.  "  She  is  my  idea  of  what  a  properly-con- 
ducted young  married  woman  should  be.  There  are  no 
whisperings  in  corners  here.  No  runnings  up  the  stairs 
and  lingering  in  corridors  ;  no  vulgar  clasping  of  hands 
beneath  the  cover  of  the  table-cloth,  as  I  regret  to  say  is 
the  low  practice  of  some  young  married  folk.  Muriel  is 
dignified.  I  could  hardly  fancy  a  situation  in  which  she 
would  fail  to  comport  herself  with  becoming  grace." 

"I,  as  you  may  possibly  know,  am  always  regarded  as 
quite  a  model,  and  there  is  your  niece,  Lady  Branksmere, 
for  example,  eh,?" 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  67 

At  this  moment  a  servant  throws  wide  the  tapestry-hang- 
ings at  the  end  of  the  gallery  and  announces  : 
"Captain  Staines ! " 


CHAPTER  IX. 

"  Suspicion  sleeps  at  wisdom's  gate." 
"Knowledge  is  power." 

INVOLUNTARILY  Lord  Branksmere  lifts  his  eyes  and  turns 
them  upon  his  wife. 

"  I  hope  Jenkins  was  in  time  to  meet  your  train  ?  He 
started  rather  late,"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  advancing  so 
very  indolently  to  welcome  the  new-comer  that  as  his  hand 
touches  hers  she  is  still  on  the  border  of  the  Persian  rug. 
Her  voice  is  cold  and  firm  as  usual,  her  color  unchanged. 
Not  so  much  as  a  flicker  of  her  long  heavy  lashes  betrays 
the  fact  that  she  remembers  that  this  man  standing  now 
before  her — with  a  stolicism  scarcely  so  perfect  as  her 
own — was  her  chosen  lover  only  three  short  months  ago  ! 
Her  unconcern  is  so  complete,  so  utterly  without  effort 
(apparently)  that  Branksmere  draws  a  breath  of  passionate 
relief.  He  had  almost  forgotten  where  he  was  in  his 
eager  examination  of  his  wife's  features,  until  startled  into 
remembrance  by  a  whisper  at  his  side. 

It  is  scarcely  a  whisper  either,  rather  a  word  or  two 
spoken  involuntarily.  Madame  von  Thirsk,  standing  be- 
side him,  with  her  lithe  form  rather  bent  forward,  is  also 
watching  Muriel's  reception  of  Captain  Staines  with  an 
intensity  of  expression  that  surprises  Branksmere.  As 
Muriel's  cold,  measured  tones  meet  her  ear  she  draws  a 
breath  of  admiration. 

"  Magnificent !  "  she  says,  in  the  subdued  voice  that  had 
startled  him. 

"What?"  he  asks,  sharply,  turning  abruptly  to  her. 
She  colors  faintly,  and  then  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"That  old  brocade,"  with  a  little  supercilious  glance  at 
Muriel's  toilette,  and  an  ambiguous  smile.  She  moves 
away  from  him  with  lowered  eyes  to  where  Mrs.  Daryl  is 
standing  in  one  of  the  windows. 

"  I  say,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  "  that  is  Captain  Staines, 
isn't  it  ?  Some  little  story  about  hinl,  wasn't  there  ? " 


68  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  I  never  heard  it  amounted  to  that,"  drawls  Mrs.  Vyner. 
"  He  was  very  decided  cpris  with  her  before  her  marriage, 
but " 

"  With  whom  ?  " 

"  Lady  Branksmere,  of  course.  Why,  what  were  you 
alluding  to  ?" 

"  Ah  ?  so  !  Hadn't  a  notion  of  such  an  affair  as  thai. 
But  really  one  never  knows  what  those  immaculate-look- 
ing women  are  going  to  be  up  to  next.  In  love  with  him 
before  marriage,  you  say.  And  now  she  has  him  here  ? " 

"  By  Branksmere's  desire,  not  hers.  It  was  Branksmere 
himself  who  specially  invited  him." 

"Ah!  now,  that  was  kind!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Amyot, 
breaking  into  an  irrepressible  little  laugh. 

"What's  the  joke? "asks  Halkett,  dropping  into  the 
chair  nearest  to  her — ras  a  rule  he  is  always  just  there. 
"Anything  I  may  hear  without  detriment  to  my  morals  ?  " 

"  One  knows  so  little  about  t/iem  !  "  hesitates  Mrs.  Amyot. 

"  They  are  unobtrusive,  certainly.  I  don't  show  them 
off  like  Miss  Mumm.  You  must  take  them  for  granted." 

"  I  shouldn't  like  to  take  them  at  all,"  lisps  Mrs.  Vyner, 
unfurling  her  fan. 

"  I  shall  tell  Colonel  Vyner  about  your  incivility  to 
me,"  says  Halkett,  "if  you  persist  in  this  persecution  of 
an  unprotected  young  man.  By  the  bye,  is  he  here  ? " 

"  He  is  always  en  evidence.  One  cannot  escape  him," 
says  Colonel  Vyner's  wife,  with  a  soft  grimace. 

"  Well,  I  still  want  to  hear  about  what  was  amusing  you 
so  intensely  a  moment  since,"  persists  Halkett,  looking  at 
Mrs.  Amyot.  "  If  I  may  without  blushing." 

"  That,  certainly,"  casting  a  coquettish  glance  at  him 
from  under  her  exquisitely  fringed  lids.  "  That  pretty 
accomplishment  has  been  forgotten  by  you  for  many  a  day. 
Mrs.  Vyner  arid  I  were  merely  discussing  the  amiability  of 
the  present  age  !  "  Here  she  leans  a  little  toward  her 
friend.  "My  little  story  was  not  yours •,"  she  murmurs  con- 
fidentially. "Sentiment  had  nothing  to  do  with  it.  It  was 
something  else.  Gambling,  debts,  a  row  of  some  sort  in 
some  club  abroad.  To  tell  you  a  truth  I  am  always  rather 
vague  about  my  little  stories  unless  the  subjects  of  them 
happen  to  be " 

"  Your  intimate  friends,"  interposes  Halkett  gayly. 

"  Ah  !  make  ^acquaintances.  It  sounds  better,"  returns 
Mrs.  Amyot,  composedly. 

"Talking  of  them,"  yawns  Mrs.  Vyner,  "did  you  ever 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  69 

see  anyone  wear  like  Madame  von  Thirsk  ?  How  she 
chooses  her  gowns  !  It's  talent — positive  talent !  Thirty, 
if  a  day,  and  doesn't  look  twenty-two.  I  hope  when  I'm 
thirty  I'll  look  half  as  well." 

"  When  will  that  be  ? "  asks  Mrs.  Amyot,  mischievously. 

"  Never !"  calmly.  "I  have  made  up  my  mind  to  go 
from  twenty-eight  to  fifty  in  a  week.  But  pay  attention 
to  Madame.  She  is  worth  it." 

"  She  is  very  careful,  certainly,  and  she  is  foreign.  The 
latter  counts  a  great  deal." 

"  I  think  it  is  all  in  those  dear  little  soft  high  frills  she 
wears  round  her  throat,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  reflectively. 
"  Nothing  betrays  one  like  the  throat.  But  I  don't  admire 
her  as  much  as  you  do.  There  is  a  sly,  catty  look  about  her 
that  annoys  me.  If  I  were  Lady  Branksmere " 

"  Well  ? " 

"  I  should  give  her  her  walking-papers  straight  off." 

"You  should  remember  how  good  she  has  been  to 
Branksmere  all  these  years — or  at  least  to  his  grand- 
mother," murmurs  Mrs.  Vyner,  demurely.  "And  then — 
he  has  asked  Captain  Staines  to  his  house.  There  is  such 
a  thing  as  gratitude." 

"  Oh  !  Branksmere's  all  right,"  says  Halkett,  suddenly. 
"And  Lady  Branksmere — 

"  Is  handsome  enough  to  upset  all  our  apple-carts," 
laughs  Mrs.  Amyot.  "  Therefore,  we  owe  her  one  !  But, 
Captain  Staines  !  He  wouldn't  suit  me  at  all  events." 

"  I  wonder  who  would  ?"  asks  Halkett,  carelessly,  dart- 
ing a  swift  glance  at  her. 

"You  do,  admirably,"  retorts  she,  saucily.  The  answer 
is  so  unexpected  that  the  three  burst  out  laughing. 

"  No — no  more  tea,  thank  you,  Mr.  Bellew,"  says  Mrs. 
Amyot,  looking  up  at  Curzon.  "  But  you  can  give  me 
something  else — information  about  that  little  woman  in 
the  window  talking  to  Madame." 

"  That  is  Mrs.  Daryl.  A  new-comer  altogether.  She 
married  Billy  Daryl  lately,  or  he  married  her,  I'm  not  sure 
which.  Anything  else  I  can  do  for  you  ?" 

"  Yes.  Go  back  to  Margery,"  with  a  smile.  "  So,"  turn- 
ing to  Lord  Primrose,  who  has  just  joined  them,  "that  is 
Mrs.  Daryl  ?  Big  heiress,  wasn't  she  ?  " 

"  Yes.  She  was  the  only  child  of  her  father,  and  he  was 
a  rag  and  bone  merchant." 

"Not  at  all,"  corrects  Mrs.  Vyner,  languidly.  "Three- 
lovely  golden  balls  hung  before  his  door,  and " 


70  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  She  didn't  get  a  penny  from  her  father,"  interrupts 
Halkett.  "There  was  an  old  General  something  or  other, 
an  uncle  of  hers,  who  enriched  her.  She  was  in  America 
for  the  best  part  of  her  young  life,  then  came  back  to 
England,  and  was  companion  to  two  crotchety  old  cous- 
ins, whom  the  gods  (as  they  boast  so  much  of  their  jus- 
tice), should  confound,  and  then  Billy  looked  her  up,  and 
then  the  General  evaporated,  leaving  his  winnings  behind 
him,  and — that's  all.  You'll  like  her.  She's  real  grit,  as 
they  say  in  her  early  home." 

"Strangers  are  often  interesting.  I  shall  make  myself 
pretty  to  her,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot.  "  By  the  bye,  she  ap- 
pears to  know  Captain  Staines,  at  all  events  ! " 

Muriel's  chilling  reception  of  him  had  somewhat  dis- 
concerted Captain  Staines  on  his  first  entry.  He  had 
closed  his  interview  with  her  as  speedily  as  possible,  and 
wandered  away  aimlessly  through  the  gallery,  stopping 
now  and  then  to  say  a  word  or  two  to  those  he  knew.  A 
large  part  of  the  county  had  by  chance  chosen  to-day  to 
call  upon  the  bride,  so  that  the  place  was  rather  full,  the 
guests  staying  in  the  house  not  being  inconsiderable  in 
themselves.  Staines,  walking  through  them  with  his  tall, 
upright  figure  and  handsome  face,  is  distinctly  noticeable. 
He  is  a  fair  man,  with  a  long,  droopihg  mustache,  and 
straight  nose,  and  large,  but  rather  light,  blue  eyes.  There 
is  a  little  scar  upon  his  left  temple  that  rather  adds  to  than 
detracts  from  his  appearance.  Beyond  all  doubt  he  is  a 
man  worthy  a  second  glance,  and  yet  there  is  something 
about  his  face  that  to  the  thoughtful  few  gives  ground  for 
speculation.  Is  it  that  the  brilliant  eyes  are  too  closely 
set,  or  perhaps  a  little  shifty,  or  is  it  that  there  is  a  touch 
of  cruelty  in  the  well-formed  mouth  ? 

With  some  people,  at  all  events,  it  appears  he  is  hardly 
a  favorite  ;  Colonel  Vyner  receives  his  advances  but  coldly, 
and  Lord  Primrose  grows  even  more  devoted  to  Lady  Anne 
as  he  draws  near.  Lady  Anne  herself  is  very  gracious,  but 
then — could  she  be  otherwise  ?  Old  Sir  Stapleton  Gore, 
too,  is  very  amiable  to  him,  and  Billy  Daryl  accepts  him 
with  effusion.  Billy  had  seen  a  good  deal  of  him  last 
autumn,  and  now,  under  the  impression  that  his  sister, 
Lady  Branksmere,  had  not  behaved  altogether  well  to  him 
in  throwing  him  over  for  a  better  parti,  feels  it  incumbent 
upon  him  to  be  specially  civil. 

Staines,  turning  suddenly  round,  finds  himself  face  to 
face  with  Mrs.  Daryl. 


LADY  BRAffKSMERE.  71 

To  a  thoughtful  observer  it  might  suggest  itself  that 
when  he  so  finds  himself  he  would  gladly  (for  the  time 
being  at  least)  be  blotted  out  of  remembrance.  His  pale 
skin  grows  paler,  and  he  so  far  foi'gets  his  usually  perfect 
manners  as  to  omit  to  take  the  hand  she  holds  out  to  him. 
After  an  instant's  hesitation  : 

"This  is  a  surprise,  is  it  not?"  smiles  she,  calmly. 
"But  I  should  have  given  you  credit  for  being  proof 
against  all  casualties  of  such  a  nature.  It  is  the  unex- 
pected that  always  happens.  Have  you  never  yet  taken 
that  to  heart  ? " 

"  Willy — "  begins  he,  confusedly. 

"  Mrs.  Daryl — "  interrupts    she,   icily,  and  turns  away. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,"  exclaims  he,  following  her  farther 
into  the  window-recess.  "  I  know  nothing,  remember 
that.  You  are  married  then  ?  and  to  Daryl  ?  By  Jove  ! 
You — you  are  Lady  Branksmere's  sister-in-law  ! " 

"Yes.  Why  should  that  fact  cause  you  emotion  ?"  asks 
she,  contemptuously,  looking  at  his  flushed  face  and  com- 
pressed lips. 

"  It  doesn't,"  returns  he,  making  an  effort  at  compos- 
ure. 

"Is  that  so  ?  Then  why  have  you  grown  so  red?"  de- 
mands Mrs.  Daryl,  in  her  terribly  straightforward  way. 
"  Look  here,  my  friend  !  if  you  have  come  down  here  with 
the  intention  of  making  it  unpleasant  for  anybody,  I'd  ad- 
vise you  to  chuck  up  that  intention  as  speedily  as  possible. 
I'm  here,  too  !  " 

"  I  don't  see  why  you  should  attack  me  like  this,"  says 
Staines,  sulkily.  Then  suddenly  he  lifts  his  head  and 
looks  at  her  ;  "  can't  we  be  friends  ?  "  asks  he. 

"  Friends  ?     No  !  " 

"  Not  foes,  at  least  ? " 

She  is  silent. 

"  Betrayal  will  cost  you  dearer  than  me"  says  Staines,  in 
a  low,  deliberate  tone. 

"  I  think  not,"  slowly.  Then  she  looks  at  him.  "  Cow- 
ard7"  she  says,  scornfully. 

"A  woman's  good  name  is  a  brittle  thing.  A  touch 
smashes  it." 

"Yet,  I  am  not  afraid.  You  will  never  be  able  to  smash 
mine  ;  whereas  you  will  recall,  perhaps,  that  little  affair 
with  Grevecceur  and " 

Staines  grows  livid. 

"Hah!"   laughs  she,    lightly.      "That  touches  you,  it 


72  LADY  BRANKSMLRE. 

seems.  Take  heart.  I  am  not  going  to  set  the  social 
bloodhounds  on  your  track — yet" 

"Sign  a  truce  with  me  then,"  exclaims  he,  eagerly. 

"  To  be  kept  sacred  just  so  long  as  I  see  you  conducting 
yourself  properly,"  returns  she,  meaningly.  "Now  go. 
The  very  sight  of  you  is  hateful  to  me." 

She  seems  to  breathe  more  freely  when  he  has  left  her, 
and  turns  with  a  glad  smile  to  Margery,  who  draws  near 
with  Curzon  Bellew  at  her  side.  The  girl  is  looking  sin- 
gularly pretty  to-day,  though  perhaps  a  little  petulant — as 
she  generally  does  when  Bellew  is  with  her — but  charm- 
ing all  the  same,  with  her  dainty  oval  face,  and  saucy  lips, 
and  eyes  most  wonderful — laughing,  roguish,  wicked,  ten- 
der, cruel  eyes — guarded  jealously  by  their  long,  curved 
lashes. 

Just  now  she  is  looking  a  little  worried,  but  Mrs.  Daryl 
is  not  allowed  time  to  inquire  into  the  matter.  Lady 
Branksmere,  sweeping  up  to  them,  lays  her  hand  on  Wil- 
helmina's  arm. 

"  I  want  to  introduce  you  to  Lady  Anne,"  she  says  in 
the  softly  imperious  way  that  belongs  to  her  and  suits  her. 
Mrs.  Daryl  follows  her.  Half-way  across  the  gallery  Muri- 
el looks  round. 

"  So  you  know  Captain  Staines  ?'"  she  says. 

"  Slightly,  yes.  I  met  him  abroad,  in  Brussels,  where 
the  old  people  went  once  and  took  me  with  them." 

Then  Lady  Anne  is  reached  and  the  introduction  is 
gone  through. 

Meantime  Margery  has  sunk  in  a  rather  dejected  fash- 
ion, upon  the  deep  window-seat,  and  is  gazing  out  upon 
the  wooded  hill,  steeped  in  dying  sunshine,  and  on  the 
lake  far  down  below  that  is  sparkling  as  if  incandescent. 

"  You  didn't  mean  it  really,  did  you  ? "  asks  Bellew, 
presently. 

"  That  I  am  not  going  to  the  County  Ball,  next  Thurs- 
day fortnight  ?  Certainly,  I  meant  it.  Why  should  you 
doubt  me  ?" 

"  But  your  reason  ? " 

"Reasons  rather,  for  they  are  'plentiful  as  blackberries.' 
But  why  should  I  give  them  ?" 

"Give  one,  at  least,"  pleads  he. 

"  Take  the  principal  one  then.  I  haven't  a  gown  fit  to 
be  seen  in." 

"  Oh,  stuff  and  nonsense,"  says  Mr.  Bellew,  with  quite 
a  superior  air. 


LADY  BRANfCSMERE.  73 

"  I  dare  say!"  indignantly.  "That  is  just  the  brilliant 
remark  one  might  expect  you  to  make.  But  there  is  very 
little  nonsense  about  it,  let  me  tell  you,  and  no  stuff  at  all 
— not  a  yard  of  it — or  probably  I'd  go.  But  to  appear 
shabbily  gowned  is  a  thing  I  will  not  do.  If  I  did,"  with 
a  withering  and  most  uncalled-for  glance  at  her  slave, 
"you  would  be  the  very  first  to  find  fault  with  me." 

"/would?" 

"Yes,  you.  Picture  me  to  yourself  in  that  heirloom  of 
mine — the  old  white  silk " 

"  You  look  lovely  in  it " 

"Among  all  the  others  tricked  out  in  their  best  bibs  and 
tuckers  straight  from  White  and  Worth,  and  confess  you 
would  be  ashamed  of  me." 

"Ashamed  !  " 

"  Yes,  thoroughly,"  with  decision.  "  You  needn't  imag- 
ine that  you  are  a  bit  better  than  the  rest  of  you,  and  all 
men  hate  a  dowdy  woman." 

"  I  don't  see  what  that's  got  to  do  with  you." 

"  Mrs.  Amyot  has  been  teaching  you  to  make  pretty 
speeches." 

"She  has  done  nothing  of  the  sort.  I  expect,"  indig- 
nantly, "she  has  something  better  to  do." 

"Well?  you  needn't  lose  your  temper  about  it.  If," 
provokingly,  and  with  a  side  glance  at  him  from  under 
her  long  lashes,  "  you  are  in  love  with  her  I  see  nothing 
to  be  concealed." 

"I  haven't  lost  my  temper  about  anything,"  angrily, 
"and  I'm  not  in  love  with " 

"  Anybody !  Sensible  boy!"  interrupts  Miss  Daryl, 
gayly.  "  Keep  to  that  till  your  hair  is  gray,  and  you'll 
die  a  happy  old  man.  No  !  Not  another  word  about  this 
odious  ball.  I'm  not  going,  because  I  haven't  a  respecta- 
ble rag  to  put  on,  and  there's  an  end  of  it.  The  humiliat- 
ing truth  has  been  laid  bare  to  you.  Respect  it,  and  help 
me  to  forget  all  about  it." 

An  expression  that  is  distinctly  miserable  clouds  Mr. 
Bellew's  face. 

"  I  wish "  he  begins  with  a  rush,  and  then  comes  to 

a  dead  pause. 

"  So  do  I,  for  lots  of  things,"  agreeably. 

"  It  was  hardly  that  I  was  going  to  say.  What  I  mean 
is  " — coloring  warmly — "  that  if  I  could  only  have  my  own 
way "  Another  eloquent  hesitation. 

"  You  would   probably  be   the   most  wretched  person 


74  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

upon  earth.  Have  you  never  yet  grasped  that  pleasing 
truth  ?  Have  you  never  read  any  of  the  highly  improv- 
ing, if  slightly  bilious  tracts  that  Mr.  Goldie  distributes  to 
the  young  people  of  the  parish  every  Sunday.  Oh,  Cur- 
zon  !  I  doubt  you  aren't  all  you  ought  to  be  !  " 

"Look  here,"  says  Mr.  Bellevv,  desperately,  who  hasn't 
heard  a  word  of  the  foregoing  denunciation,  "  all  that  1 
want  is — to  give  you  all  thatjy0#  want." 

"  Now,  that  is  what  I  call  true  amiability,"  says  Margery. 
"  Mr.  Goldie  will  be  proud  of  you  yet.  To  give  me  all 
that  /want  ?  As,  for  example  ?" 

"A  new  gown  for  this  ball !"  blurts  out  he,  miserably, 
and  then  looks  ready  to  faint  with  fright. 

Margery  has  turned  aside.  The  heavy  amber-satin  cur- 
tains conceal  her  effectually  from  the  sight  of  all  but  him, 
and  therefore  she  covers  her  face  with  both  hands,  in 
peace.  Her  head  is  bent.  She  is  trembling  ! 

Mr.  Bellew's  soul  dies  within  him.  Is  she  angry — 
hopelessly  offended,  perhaps?  What  the  deuce  made  him 
say  that  ?  What  imp  of  darkness  persuaded  him  to  offer 
her  such  an  insult?  She'll  never  forgive  it!  It's — it's 
just  the  sort  of  thing  that — er — perhaps  a  woman  wouldn't 
forgive  !  Oil !  if  she  would  only  say  something  !  A  jolly 
good  rowing  would  be  a  matter  for  gratitude  if  compared 
with  this. 

The  silence  is  growing  intolerable.  Curzon  having 
made  up  his  mind  to  break  it  at  all  hazards,  looks  at  her 
nervously,  and  as  he  does  so  a  certain  little  motion  of  her 
shoulders  becomes  known  to  him.  Is  she  crying  ?  He 
grows  cold  with  apprehension.  He  has,  then,  not  only 
offended  but  hurt  her  ! 

"  Meg  !  "  exclaims  he,  softly,  but  vehemently,  "  let  me 
explain.  You  are  awfully  angry  now,  I  can  see,  but  if  you 
knew  the  truth — if  you  could  see  into  my  heart!  Turn 
round,  can't  you,  and  listen  to  me  ?  " 

But  Miss  Daryl  declines  either  to  turn  round  or  listen. 
That  mournful  motion  of  her  pretty  shoulders  grows 
stronger,  more  pronounced.  She  is  evidently  convulsed 
with  grief.  What  on  earth  is  to  become  of  him  if  she 
won't  even  hear  his  apology  ? 

"  You  will  listen,  won't  you  ? "  stammers  he,  wretch- 
edly. "  I'm  the  unluckiest  beggar  alive,  I  do  believe,  but 
in  this  affair  I  am  innocent." 

No  answer. 

"My  dear  girl,  you  must  believe  me." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  75 

Not  a  word.     Gracious  powers  !     What  is  he  to  do  next  ? 

"  If  you  go  on  crying  like  that,"  declares  he,  desperately, 
"you  will  drive  me  out  of  my  mind.  Even  if  I  had  meant 
it,  you  couldn't  take  it  worse,  but  I  didrit  /"  He  throws 
out  his  hands  in  frantic  protest.  "'Pon  my  soul  I  didn't ! 
There  !  the  words  slipped  out  somehow,  but  I  meant  noth- 
ing. I  swear  it  !  " 

Miss  Daryl,  as  though  roused  to  life  by  this  passionate 
declaration,  turns  slowly  round  and  surveys  him  through 
half  open  fingers  that  are  slender  and  pale  and  pink 
tipped — the  most  kissable  fingers  ever  created  according 
to  her  adorers. 

"  Well,  of  all  the  mean  speeches  !  "  she  says,  deliberately. 
She  is  flushed,  but  not  with  grief  ;  her  eyes  are  all  alight, 
her  lovely  lips  parted  ;  she  is  evidently  consumed  with 
laughter.  "  Then  you  won't  give  me  that  gown  after  all  ? " 
she  goes  on.  "  And  when  you  had  promised  it  too  ?  Oh, 
Curzon  !  I  wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you.  Was  there 
ever  so  disgraceful  a  transaction  since  the  world  began  !" 

"Margery,"  cries  he,  rapturously,  "what  an  abominable 
little  actress  you  are  !  What  a  fright  you  gave  me.  You 
know  very  well ' 

"  You — at  last !  Yes,  down  to  the  ground,"  wrinkling  up 
her  brows,  and  glancing  at  him  with  would-be  reproach. 
"Well !  Keep  your  paltry  gown.  It  is  not  the  first  time 
I  have  been  deceived  in  you." 

"  You  will  let  me  help  you  then  ?  " 

"  Not  now,  certainly.  Not  after  the  base  way  in  which 
you  have  gone  back  on  your  offer.  Oh,  fie  !  Mr.  Bellew  ! 
It  is  my  turn  now  to  be  ashamed  of  you." 

"  But  will  you  ?"  entreats  he,  pressing  the  point. 

Margery  breaks  into  low,  soft  laughter. 

"No  ;  not  I.  Don't  be  a  goose,"  she  says,  lightly,  pat- 
ting the  back  of  one  of  his  hands  in  a  surreptitious  amused 
sort  of  way.  "  I  think  I  see  myself  taking  clothes  from 
you." 

To  say  that  Mr.  Bellew  is  disappointed  by  this  answer 
would  be  to  say  nothing. 

"  It  is  all  such  humbug,"  he  declares,  gloomily.  "Why 
should  a  girl  take  a  bracelet  from  a  fellow,  and  not  a 
gown  ?  The  bracelet  would  cost  twice  as  much.  And, 
if  we  were  married  you  would  take  anything  from  me. 
Why  should  a  few  words  make  such  a  difference  ? 

"  A  few  words  very  frequently  create  serious  differences 
between  people." 


76  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  You  don't  follow  me.  I  was  wondering  why  the  words 
of  the  marriage-service  read  over  a  woman  should  make 
her  on  the  instant  change  all  her  views." 

"  I  don't  follow  you  there,  certainly.  I  don't  believe  if 
you  were  to  read  the  marriage-service  over  my  head  every 
day  for  a  week  it  would  make  me  change  my  opinion  of — 
Mrs.  Amyot,  for  example." 

"  I  wonder  if  I  shall  ever  hear  that  service  read  over 
you." 

"  Well,  I  hope  so." 

"Margery" — rising  to  the  topmost  pinnacle  of  hope — 
"  do  you  mean  it  ?" 

"Why  not?"  asks  Miss  Daryl,  laughing.  "Did  you 
think  I  had  vowed  myself  to  a  life  of  celibacy  ?  " 

"Ah!"  says  he,  rather  crushed  by  her  gayety,  "I  see. 
I  didn't  understand.  I  wonder,"  gazing  at  her  anxiously, 
"  if  you  will  ever  marry  me  ?  " 

"So  do  I?"  returns  Miss  Daryl!  with  undiminished 
cheerfulness.  "  The  question  leaves  a  good  field  for  in- 
teresting speculation." 

Bellew  at  this  abominable  speech,  instantly  changes  his 
expression  for  a  wrath  that  knows  no  bounds. 

"  Don't  worry  yourself  over  it,"  he  says.  "  It  is  no  such 
great  matter  after  all.  If  not  me,  another  ;  and  if  not  an- 
other, someone  else." 

"  That  is  a  very  remarkable  speech." 

"  And  you  are  in  a  very  remarkable  humor,  it  strikes 
me.  What  have  I  done  to  you  that  you  should  treat  me 
like  this?" 

"Like  what?" 

"  First,  you  refuse  to  go  to  this  ball — simply,  I  honestly 
believe,  because  I  happened  to  mention  it  to  you,  and  you 
saw  my  heart  was  set  upon  your  being  there.  Had  Prim- 
rose asked  you  I  expect  your  reply  would  have  been  Yes, 
not  No." 

"  To  be  Lady  Primrose  do  you  mean  ? " 

"  That  will  come  later  on,  no  doubt.  Just  at  present  I 
was  alluding  to  the  County  Ball." 

"  How  do  you  know  he  didn't  ask  me  to  go  ?  " 

"  Because  you  are  not  going.  By  the  bye,  what  was  he 
talking  to  you  about  for  the  last  hour  ?" 

"  Of  love  !  "  sweetly. 

"  What!" 

"  Love,"  with  gentle  reiterations.  "Pure  and  simple. 
Platonic  love,  you  will  understand." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  77 

"  I  do,"  grimly. 

"  I  thought  he  viewed  the  subject  rather  abstrusely,  and 
I  told  him  so  ;  but  he  was  very  well  up  in  it  nevertheless, 
and  very  interesting,  too." 

"  No  doubt.  I  fear  I  have  been  boring  you  all  this 
time,"  with  elaborate  politeness.  "  Let  me  take  you  back 
to  the  others." 

"  I  haven't  feared  boring  you,"  says  Miss  Daryl,  "  be- 
cause," she  puts  back  one  of  the  satin  curtains  delicately 
and  glances  down  the  gallery.  "  Yes,  I  knew  it,"  she  goes 
on  pleasantly.  "  She  is  still  occupying  herself  very  amia- 
bly with  Mr.  Halkett,  so  that  you  would  have  been  rather 
out  of  it,  even  if  you  weren't  wasting  your  time  with  me. 
Three  is  trumpery,  you  know." 

This  allusion  to  Mrs.  Amyot  and  his  supposed  penchant 
for  her  is  treated  by  Bellew  with  the  supreme  disdain  it 
merits. 

"  However,  if  you  are  tired  of  being  here,  and  would 
like  to  try  your  luck  with  her  again,  go,"  says  Margery. 

Rather  to  her  astonishment  he  takes  her  at  her  word, 
and  moves  toward  the  opening  of  the  curtains. 

"And — Curzon —  •"  she  calls  to  him  just  as  he  is  disap- 
pearing through  them.  He  turns  upon  her  a  smileless  face 
and  a  lowering  brow. 

"Well?" 

"  There  is  just  one  other  thing,"  letting  her  pretty  head 
droop  a  little,  and  plucking  with  an  adorable  affectation  of 
nervousness  at  the  blood-red  flowers  in  her  hand.  "If 
there  is  any  dancing  by  and  by,  will  you  ask  me  to  dance, 
before  you  ask — Mrs.  Amyot  ?" 

She  lifts  her  head  and  treats  him  to  a  very  lovely  glance. 
It  is  timorously  hopeful,  and  is  therefore  distinctly  hypo- 
critical— because,  as  she  well  knows,  she  needn't  hope  at 
all.  All  that  sort  of  thing  is  done  to  overflowing  by  him. 
She  lets  her  large  eyes  dwell  on  his  with  mournful  entreaty 
that  "some  other  time,  some  other  day,"  would  have  ex- 
cited only  laughter  in  his  breast,  but  just  now  incenses 
him.  She  is  looking  a  great  deal  too  meek  and 

"  On  her  mouth 

A  doubtful  smile  dwells  like  a  clouded  morn 
In  a  still  water." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  exclaims  he  scornfully,  turning  on  his  heel 
and  striding  down  the  gallery. 

Miss  Daryl  gives  way  to  soft  laughter. 


78  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  I  hope   it  will  be  a  waltz   the   first,"  she  soliloquizes, 

contentedly.  "Not  one  of  them  can  dance  as  well  as  he 
does." 


CHAPTER  X. 

"  The  past  is  in  many  things  the  foe  of  mankind:  .  .  .  For  the 
past  has  no  hope." 

MRS.  AMYOT,  when  the  idea  of  dancing  through  the  af- 
ternoon is  propounded  to  her,  is  delighted  with  it ;  so  is 
Mrs.  Vyner  in  her  languid  fashion.  So  indeed  is  every- 
body except  Aunt  Selina !  That  sour  spinster  sitting  on 
the  one  hard,  uncomfortable  chair  the  gallery  contains — a 
chair  never  intended  for  use,  being  severely  ornamental — 
looks  frowningly  around  her,  and  waits  for  the  luckless 
pause  that  may  give  her  the  opportunity  of  expressing 
aloud  her  disapprobation  of  the. amusement  in  view. 

Halkett,  who  from  the  beginning  of  their  acquaintance, 
has  been  greatly  taken  by  her,  now  approaches  her  with  a 
winning  smile. 

"You  dance,  of  course,  Miss  Mumm,"  he  says,  with 
beaming  artlessness,  "  may  I  have — 

"Dance!  No!"  interrupts  Miss  Mumm,  adjusting  her 
pince  nez  with  an  air  of  stern  displeasure.  "  I  should  think 
not,  indeed.  I  wouldn't  be  guilty  of  such  lightness." 
She  is  sixty  if  a  day,  and  on  an  average  weighs  about 
seventeen  stone. 

"No,  no,"  says  Mr.  Halkett,  soothingly.  "  Your  actions, 
I  feel  sure,  are  not  open  to  censure  of  that  sort.  What- 
ever you  are  " — with  profound  and  respectful  conviction — 
"I  am  sure  you  are  not  light." 

"  It  is  a  comfort  to  know  that  you,  sir,  at  least  have 
measured  me  justly,"  returns  Aunt  Selina,  gravely.  "In 
my  time,  that  abominable  romp  called  dancing  was  looked 
upon  as  little  less  than  sin.  Decently-minded  people 
never  countenanced  it.  We  were  content  witli  more  in- 
nocent amusements  such  as  for  instance  '  Puss  in  the  cor- 
ner,' 'Blind  man's  buff,'  'Kiss  in  the  ring,'  '  Hunt  the  slip- 
per,' and  a  variety  of  other  simple  sports." 

Mrs.  Amyot  and  Primrose — who  happen  to  be  standing 
near — give  way  to  wild  mirth,  in  which  Curzon,  after  a 
faint  struggle,  joins  heartily.  Mr.  Halkett,  however, 
seems  much  struck  with  Miss  Mumm's  remarks. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  79 

"  There  is  a  great  deal  in  what  you  say,"  tys  agrees,  sol- 
emnly, "a  great  deal.  We  might  all  take  it  to  heart  with 
much  benefit  to  ourselves.  There  are  possibilities  about 
'Kiss  in  the  ring'  before  which  the  weaker  attractions  of 
dancing  pale.  And  as  for  '  Hunt  the  slipper  ! '  why  should 
we  not  hunt  it  now?  Mrs.  Amyot,  will  you  join  me  in 
the  chase  ?  Miss  Mumm,  I  feel  sure,  will  kindly  give  us 
the  rules." 

"You  all  sit  down  on  the  ground,"  begins  Aunt  Selina, 
carefully,  "  and  make  a  circle." 

"A  mystic  circle  !  " 

"  If  anybody  is  going  to  make  anything  go  round  and 
round  I  won't  play,"  declares  Primrose.  "  I've  had  enough 
of  all  that  sort  of  thing  in  town.  It  makes  me  giddy  for 
one  thing,  and  I  can't  endure  spirits.  They  play  the  very 
mischief  with^one's  nerves." 

"  If  taken  to  excess,"  assents  Halkett,  gravely. 

"  One  should  throw  a  little  spirit  into  everything  one  un- 
dertakes," puts  in  Mrs.  Amyot,  who  has  not  been  listening. 

"  But  there  won't  be  any  in  this  game  at  all,  nothing 
bordering  on  it,  will  there,  Miss  Mumm  ?  Not  so  much 
as  a  bottle  of  the  harmless,  if  slightly  trying,  ginger  beer." 

"  Eh  ? "  questions  the  spinster,  who  is  a  little  out  of  it 
by  this  time. 

"Lord  Primrose,"  says  Halkett,  mildly,  "is  afraid  you 
will  intoxicate  him." 

"Don't  mind  him,  Miss  Mumm,"  interposed  Primrose. 
"  Nothing  of  the  sort,  give  you  my  word.  Was  alluding 
merely  to  that  horrid  juggling  system  they  are  carrying  on 
now  of  showing  up  one's  grandmother  after  she  has  lain 
quiet  in  her  grave  for  half  a  century." 

"What  are  you  going  to  do  ?  To  dance?"  asks  Lady 
Branksmere,  coming  up  to  the  group. 

"Well,  that  is  what  we  should  like  to  do,"  answers  Mrs. 
Vyner,  pathetically.  "  But  Miss  Mumm  has  terrified  us 
all.  She  says,"  demurely,  "  it  is  very  wicked  of  us  even  to 
long  for  such  a  godless  amusement.  She  has  taken  hold 
of  Mr.  Halkett's  conscience  and  converted  him,  and  now 
we  don't  know  what  to  do." 

"  Is  he  the  keeper  of  all  your  consciences  ?  "  asks  Muriel, 
with  her  low  trainante  laugh.  "  Poor  Mr.  Halkett !  "  She 
lets  her  glance  fall  suddenly  on  her  aunt,  who  is  looking 
grimly  from  one  to  the  other.  "  I  hope,  Aunt  Selina,"  she 
says  with  cold  meaning,  "  that  you  will  try  to  reconcile 
yourself  to  our  little  immoralities." 


8o  LADY  BRAKKSMKRF.. 

"  No,  Muriel !  I  shall  not"  returns  Miss  Mumm,  austerely, 
rising  from  her  seat.  "  I  shall  never  permit  myself  to  grow 
lukewarm  in  a  good  cause.  I  have  my  principles,  and  I 
shall  stick  to  them,  whatever  may  be  tiie  consequences. 
Good  evening,  my  dear.  I  shall  not  stay  to  countenance 
the  vulgar  exhibition  you  and  your  friends  are  about  to 
make  of  yourselves.  I  shall  avoid  even  the  very  appear- 
ance of  evil." 

Muriel  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"I  am  disappointed  in  you!"  continues  the  spinster. 
Lady  Branksmere  unfurls  her  fan  and  sighs  profoundly. 
In  truth,  she  is  feeling  bored  to  the  last  degree.  "  I  con- 
ceive it  will  be  my  duty  to  invite  you  and  your  friends  to 
Barren  Court  in  a  day  or  two,  and  hope  you  will  all  come 
to  us.  That  is,  to  me  and  Sir  Mutius  " — looking  ungra- 
ciously around. 

"We  shall  be  charmed,"  says  Muriel,  languidly. 

"You  will  find  it  dull!  "  remarks  Miss  Mumm,  severely. 
"  Let  that  be  understood.  Dull,  but,"  with  withering  force, 
"  decent !  " 

Without  further  ado,  she  takes  herself  off,  and  a  universal 
peal  of  laughter  follows  on  the  last  echo  of  her  footsteps. 

"  Anna,  will  you  sing  us  something  while  they  are  ar- 
ranging the  things — putting  the  footstools  to  one  side  ?  " 
asks  Muriel. 

Lady  Anne  Branksmere,  who  is  never  happier  than 
when  her  fingers  are  on  the  keys,  moves  briskly  to  the 
piano. 

"She  sings?"  asks  Mrs.  Vyner,  vaguely. 

"Oh,  charmingly.  Not  magnificently  or  loudly,  you 
know  ;  but  with  feeling  and  all  that  sort  of  thing,"  says 
Primrose.  "  Tell  you  a  fellow  who  sings  well,  too.  Staines. 
Like  a  bird,  he  sings.  Very  hard  to  make  him  warble.  I 
expect  he  thinks  it  wise  to  make  himself  rather  scarce  in 
that  way.  Adds  to  his  popularity — see  ?  " 

"  He  would  want  to  add  something  to  it ;  by  all  accounts 
it  is  thin  !  "  whispers  Mrs.  Amyot. 

"  Eh  !  Can't  say,  I'm  sure,"  says  Lord  Primrose,  rather 
puzzled,  to  whom  Staines  is  more  or  less  a  stranger. 
"  Thought  he  was  rather  a  fancy  article,  run  after  a  good 
deal  and  that,  eh  ?  " 

Meantime  Lady  Anne's  exquisite  notes  are  falling  on  the 
air.  It  is  a  little  Neapolitan  song  she  sings,  soft,  low,  gay  ; 
and  it  sets  the  pulses  laughing  even  before  one  gets  to  the 
end  of  it.  Every  one  is  very  effusive  when  she  rises  from 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  81 

the  piano,  and  compliments,  sincere  as  they  are  pretty,  are 
bandied  to  and  fro. 

"  Captain  Staines,  will  you  sing  to  us  now  ?"  says  Mrs. 
Amyot,  suddenly,  who  had  been  dying  to  make  him  sing 
ever  since  Primrose  had  told  her  he  was  chary  of  giving 
his  voice  to  the  world. 

"  I  think  not,"  returns  Staines,  smiling  at  her.  "  My 
efforts  would  hardly  please  you,  I  imagine,  after  what  we 
have  just  heard,  and  besides " 

He  pauses,  and  the  smile  dies  from  his  lips,  which  have 
grown  grave  and  thoughtful. 

"Besides  what  ?" 

"  Simply  that  I  believe  I  have  forgotten  how,  that's  all. 
I  had  almost  forgotten  that  I  once  used  to  sing  until — 
to-day."  His  voice  has  sunk  a  little,  Muriel  who  is  stand- 
ing near  looks  quickly  at  him. 

"  Let  to-day  then  be  the  commencement  of  a  new  epoch 
in  your  life's  history,"  persists  Mrs.  Amyot,  gaily.  "  Re- 
turn to  your  old  delights.  Give  place  to  song." 

"  To  go  back  upon  our  lives  is  denied  us,"  says  Cap- 
tain Staines,  gently.  "And  to  most  of  us  the  past  is  a 
sealed  book  to  which  we  dare  not  revert.  I  am  sorry  I 
cannot  please  you  in  this  matter,  but,"  he  turns  his  gaze 
suddenly  upon  Lady  Branksmere,  and  his  eyes  seem  to 
burn  into  hers  and  compel  her  regard  in  return,  "  music 
has  died  within  me." 

"  Through  dearth  of  encouragement,  perhaps,"  says 
Lady  Branksmere,  coldly,  reluctantly,  and  as  one  driven 
to  speech  against  her  will  by  the  steady  glance  of  his  eyes. 
"  If  you  were  to  try — to  make  an  effort — to  recover  your 
lost  power,  perhaps  you  might  succeed." 

"  My  lost  power  !"  repeats  he  in  a  peculiar  tone.  He 
looks  down,  and  then  continues  softly,  "Well,  I  will  try, 
if  that  is  your  desire." 

"  Not  mine— Mrs.  Amyot's,"  says  Lady  Branksmere. 
haughtily,  with  subdued  but  imperious  anger  in  her  tone. 

"  Oh,  yes,  mine  certainly,"  laughs  Mrs.  Amyot,  joyously. 

The  group  at  the  piano  divide  and  make  room  for  him  ; 
and  presently  his  fingers,  with  an  uncertainty  that  is  rich 
in  promise,  travel  over  the  notes,  striking  a  chord  here  and 
there,  until  at  last  the  spirit  moves  him,  as  it  were,  and  he 
bursts  into  song. 

His  voice  is  not  powerful,  but  clear  and  elastic,  and  for 
exquisite  timbre  could  hardly  be  equalled.  The  words  fall 
from  him  with  a  curious  distinctness,  and  there  is  some- 
6 


82  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

thing  about  his  whole  style  so  sympathique  that  it  touches 
one,  and  holds  one  spellbound.  He  sings  too  with  a  zest, 
a  brio,  that  startles  even  as  it  charms  and  creates  the  long- 
ing for  more  : — 

"Est-il  vrai  qu'a  tes  genottx 
Je  te  dis  un  jour  je  t'aimc  ? 
J'ai  reve  qu'alors  toi-meme. 
Me  redis  ce  mot  si  doux. 
Ah,  ce  n'est  pas  vrai !     Ah,  non, 
Ce  n'est  pas  vrai — non — non  1 
J'ai  reve  qu'alors  toi-meme 
Me  redis  ce  mot  si  doux." 

There  is  a  passion  in  his  voice  as  he  ends,  that  quivers 
through  the  room  and  the  hearts  of  his  hearers.  Lady 
Anne,  a  true  lover  of  music,  is  profoundly  touched,  and 
stands  gazing  at  the  singer  with  tears  in  her  eyes.  The 
others  are  all  impressed  more  or  less  as  their  souls  are 
capable  of  quickening,  and  Mrs.  Daryl  being  among 
those  of  the  lower  class  has  time  to  turn  an  almost  invol- 
untary glance  on  Lady  Branksmere. 

Muriel  is  standing  well  within  the  shelter  of  a  velvet 
portiere,  but  her  face  is  in  the  light.  It  is  pale,  rigid — 
hardly  a  living  face,  so  white  it  is,  and  still — hardly  flesh 
and  blood  at  all,  but  rather  the  mere  simulacrum  of  a 
breathing  woman.  Her  hands  hanging  loosely  before  her 
are  tensely  clasped  ;  she  seems  to  have  lost  all  memory  of 
where  she  is,  and  of  those  around  her.  A  tremulous  ray 
from  the  departing  sun  falling  through  the  painted  win- 
dow opposite  lies,  like  a  still  caress  upon  her  lowered  lids. 

The  shadow  of  a  terrible  grief  is  desolating  her  beauti- 
ful face.  Some  cruel  thought — a  crushing  remembrance 
— hitherto  subdued,  seems  now  to  have  sprung  into  fresh 
life,  and  to  have  reached  a  colossal  height.  That  music  has 
undone  her,  quite.  Is  she  thinking  of  the  singer  only, 
and  how  he  had  in  the  old  days  sung  it  to  her  again  and 
again  ?  Or  is  she  grieving  only,  for  the  days  when  he  had 
sung  it — when  she  \vas  free,  with  all  the  world  before  her 
where  to  choose.  Mrs.  Billy  gazing  at  her  with  reflective 
eyes  that  have  a  kindly  sorrow  in  their  soft  depths,  cannot 
decide  which. 

Somebody  drags  a  chair  with  a  little  rasping  noise  along 
the  polished  floor,  and  Lady  Branksmere  starts  as  though 
violently  awakened.  In  an  incredibly  short  moment,  as  it 
seems  to  Wilhelmina,  she  is  herself  again.  She  draws  a 
quick  breath  that  is  too  nervous  to  be  a  sigh,  and  steps 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  83 

with  a  slow,  dignified  motion,  into  the  very  centre  of  the 
gallery. 

"Thank  you.  It  is  a  charming  song,"  she  says,  indiffer- 
ently, turning  her  gaze  full  on  Captain  Staines.  "  I  always 
think  you  are  better  worth  listening  to  than  most  people. 
Now,  for  your  waltz,"  smiling  at  Mrs.  Amyot. 

She  seats  herself  at  the  vacant  piano  and  lets  the  first 
bars  of  the  last  brilliant  waltz  float  through  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XI. 

"  I  will  not  let  thee  sleep,  nor  eat,  nor  drink  ; 
But  I  will  ring  tliee  such  a  piece  of  eluding, 
Thou  shalt  confess  the  troubled  sea  more  calm." 

"  THE  Dowager  Lady  Branksmere's  love  to  Lady  Branks- 
mere,  and  she  will  be  pleased  to  receive  her  this  after- 
noon." The  message  sounds  more  like  a  command  than 
a  wish,  and  Muriel,  with  a  little  resigned  shrug  of  her 
shoulders,  throws  aside  her  brush  and  prepares  to  obey  it. 

"I  vvisli  I  could  go  with  you — she  is  interesting,  as  fos- 
sils usually  are — but  the  fact  is  she  abhors  me,  I  am  too 
large,  too  healthy,  too  fleshy  for  her,"  laughs  Lady  Anne, 
wheeling  round  on  the  piano  stool  ;  "  I  look  out  of  place  in 
that  ghastly  old  room  of  hers." 

"  I  can't  see  that  you  are  more  robust  than  Madame  von 
Thirsk.  Yet  she  tolerates  her,"  says  Muriel,  with  a  keen 
glance  at  her  sister-in-law. 

"  She  adores  her,"  corrects  Lady  Anne.  "  There  is  some 
tremendous  bond  between  them  ;  I  don't  quite  know  how 
the  friendship  arose,  but  it  began  about  seven  years  ago, 
about  the  year  poor  Arthur  was  killed.  She  always  al- 
ludes to  her  dead  husband  as  '  poor  Arthur,'  and  is  al- 
ways very  kindly  in  her  mention  of  him,  though  perhaps 
she  had  hardly  reason  to  be  proud  of  him  when  he  was 
alive.  To  her,  however,  he  had  always  been  fastidiously  at- 
tentive, and  his  memory  lives  strong  within  her  still.  You 
know  Arthur  was  her  favorite.  He  was  the  eldest,  and  it 
was  by  a  luckless  chance  that  Branksmere  came  in  for  the 
title.  You  know  all  about  that  duel  ?"  she  is  talking  con- 
fidentially to  Muriel,  and  now  bends  over  the  table  near, 
so  as  to  make  her  lowered  voice  heard. 

"  I  knew  he  had  been  killed  in  a  duel  ;  that  is  all." 

"  Branksmere,  George,  your  husband,  was  with  him  at 


84  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

the  time.  He,  George,  hinted  to  me  that  it  was  a  quarrel 
about  money  ;  but  he  was  so  distressed,  that  I  knew  the 
wretched  affair  had  arisen  out  of  some  fault  of  poor 
Arthur's.  He  was  rather  wild,  you  see,  and  had  an  un- 
governable temper.  From  what  I  could  drag  out  of 
Branksmere,  who  was  most  reticent  about  it,  I  should  say 
poor  Arthur  lost  himself  over  some  affair  in  a  billiard 
saloon,  and  grossly  insulted  the  man  by  whom  he  believed 
he  had  been  cheated."  She  pauses.  "  He  was  shot  dead," 
she  says  in  a  low  whisper,  tapping  her  fingers  nervously 
upon  the  table. 

"  How  terrible — for  you." 

"Yes,  terrible.  But,  do  you  know,  now  I  can  think  of 
it  quite  calmly.  It  all  happened  so  long  ago,  you  see. 
Seven  years  is  a  tremendous  space  nowadays.  Yes,  it  all 
happened  the  year  Madame  first  came  to  the  castle.  Poor 
Arthur  was  killed  about  the  beginning  of  the  year,  and 
she  came  here  about  six  months  afterward.  I  remember 
it  perfectly.  She  was  a  friend  of  some  people  Branksmere 
knew  in  Tuscany." 

"  She  seems  to  have  given  up  Tuscany  and  made  her 
home  in  England — in  Branksmere  rather." 

"Yes.  I  shouldn't  mind  that,  if  I  were  you.  She  is 
very  good  to  the  old  lady  and  useful  when  the  Dowager 
has  one  of  her  troublesome  days.  Going  to  her  now  ?  " 

"  I  wish  you  could  come  with  me." 

"I  shouldn't  be  welcome." 

"Would  I  do,"  asks  Mrs.  Amyot,  amiably. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  would  be  worse  than  Lady  Anne," 
says  Muriel,  smiling.  "You  are  too  bright,  too  airy.  It 
is  only  ghostly,  bony  people  like  me  she  can  endure.  I 
shall  give  your  kind  regards  to  Lady  Branksmere,  how- 
ever, if  you  like." 

"  What  a  tiresome  number  of  Lady  Branksmeres  there 
are,"  remarks  Mrs.  Vyner,  idly. 

"Too  many,"  acquiesces  Lady  Anne.  "There  is  the 
Dowager,  there  is  me,  there  is  Muriel.  I  felt  so  horrified 
at  the  idea  of  being  placed  as  No.  2,  among  the  Dowagers, 
that  I  went  back  to  my  old  name,  and  became  if  not  Lady 
Anne  Hare,  at  least  Lady  Anne.  A  safe  return,  Muriel," 
as  the  present  Lady  Branksmere  moves  toward  the  door. 

"Then  I  won't  do?"  asks  Mrs.  Amyot,  pathetically'. 

"  Yes,  you  will,  for  me,  admirably,"  says  Halkett,  who  has 
just  stepped  in  through  the  window.  "  So  take  heart,  and 
a  tennis  racket  at  the  same  time.  We  are  having  such  a 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  85 

game  out  here.  Come  one — come  all  of  you — and  let's 
make  an  afternoon  of  it." 

Muriel  crossing  the  hall  slowly — being  in  no  haste  to 
gain  the  chamber  where  the  old  dame  lies  in  solitary  state 
— comes  suddenly  face  to  face  with  Captain  Staines.  A 
longing  to  go  by  without  waiting  to  exchange  with  him  a 
word  of  civility  presses  sore  on  Lady  Branksmere,  but  the 
doing  so  would  be  an  act  of  discourtesy  as  they  two  are 
circumstanced,  so  that,  perforce,  she  turns  a  coldly  smiling 
face  to  his.  Her  heart  is  beating  rapidly,  almost  to  suf- 
focation. It  is  the  first  moment  since  that  happy  far-away 
past  that  she  has  found  herself  alone  with  him. 

"You  should  go  out;  the  others  are  on  the  tennis 
groiind,"  she  says,  in  a  dull,  stifled  sort  of  way,  keeping 
up  the  stereotyped  smile  by  a  supreme  effort.  She  nods 
to  him  and  goes  quickly  onward. 

"  One  moment,  Lady  Branksmere,"  exclaims  he  in  a 
low  tone,  arresting  her  footsteps.  "  One  only.  What  have 
I  done  that  you  should  avoid  me  ? " 

"  I  do  not  avoid  you,"  icily. 

"  I  fear  you  do.  I  fear  my  presence  here  is  a  matter  of 
dissatisfaction  to  you." 

His  eyes  are  bent  moodily  upon  the  ground,  a  settled 
melancholy  is  darkening  his  handsome  face.  If  it  is  a  ficti- 
tious melancholy  it  is  very  well  done  indeed. 

"  But  I  have  arranged  about  that,"  he  goes  on,  gloomily. 
"A  telegram  to-morrow  will  rid  you  of  me.  I  shall  leave 
as  suddenly  as  I  came." 

"  I  beg  you  will  not  do  this  thing.  I  assure  you  there 
is  no  reason  why  you  should,"  says  Lady  Branksmere, 
haughtily. 

Her  proud  lips  have  taken  a  still  prouder  curve,  and  she 
toys  with  the  fan  she  holds,  in  a  rather  rapid  way  that  be- 
tokens anger  only  half  concealed. 

"There  is  a  reason,"  breaks  out  Staines,  in  a  low  tone, 
full  of  suppressed  passion.  "  If  you  are  dead  to  the  past,  I 
am  not.  I  know  now  I  should  never  have  come  here — 
now  that  it  is  too  late." 

"And  why  not  here?"  demands  she,  with  flashing  eyes. 
The  words  fail  from  her  angrily,  impulsively  ;  even  as 
they  ring  in  her  ears  she  would  have  given  worlds  to  re- 
call them.  The  question  is  hers.  She  has  laid  herself 
open  to  the  answer  ;  ehe  has  in  a  manner  pledged  herself 
to  listen  to  it.  A  gleam  of  triumph  shoots  into  his  blue 
eyes. 


86  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Because  jw/  are  here,"  he  says,  slowly.  "  Need  I  have 
said  that  ?  Did  you  not  know  my  answer  ?  I  was  mad 
when  I  accepted  your — Lord  Branksmere's — invitation, 
but  I  could  not  refuse  it.  But  now  that  I  have  come — now 
that  I  have  seen" — his  voice  sinks  almost  to  a  whisper — 
"  when  all  the  old  sweet  memories  force  themselves  back 
upon  me,  I  feel  I  dare  not  remain." 

"  You  will  please  yourself  about  that,  of  course,"  answers 
Muriel,  coldly.  She  turns  away  as  if  to  pursue  her  course 
up-stairs. 

"  To  go  will  not  please  me,"  declares  he,  hurriedly. 

"  Then  stay,"  indifferently.  Her  tone  is  admirably 
calm,  but  the  hand  that  holds  her  fan  is  trembling,  and  he 
sees  it. 

"  Are  you  a  stone  ? "  he  cries,  vehemently.  "  Have  you 
altogether  forgotten  ? " 

Lady  Branksmere  pauses  abruptly  and  turns  to  him  a 
marble  face. 

"Altogether  !  "  she  says,  stonily. 

"  I  won't  believe  it,"  protests  he.  "  What !  in  this  little 
space  of  time  to  have  all,  all  blotted  out !  Nay,  I  defy  you 
to  say  it  from  your  heart.  Now  and  again  some  thought 
from  out  the  sweet  past  must  rise  within  your  breast.  Yet 
love  could  never  have  been  to  you  what  it  was  to  me.  You 
wronged  me,  Muriel,  as  only  a  woman  can  wrong  a  man. 
You  betrayed  me." 

"/;" 

"You.  Was  I  the  one  who  first  broke  faith?  .  Have  I 
married  ?  And  now,  standing  here  together  face  to  face 
once  more,  you  tell  me  I  have  no  longer  a  place  even  in 
your  thoughts,  that  it  is  nothing  to  you  whether  I  go  or 
stay  ? " 

His  last  words  are  a  question. 

"  Nothing,"  returns  she,  slowly.  And  then,  as  though 
suddenly  mindful  of  her  duties  as  a  hostess  she  bestows 
upon  him  a  faint,  wintry,  society  smile.  "  I  shall  neverthe- 
less be  very  pleased  if  you  will  stay  with  us  for  a  little 
while,"  she  says,  languidly. 

*'I  accept  your  invitation,"  declares  Staines,  suddenly — 
almost  defiantly,  and  turning  away  strides  impatiently 
down  a  side  corridor — to  find  himself  all  but  in  the  arms  of 
Madame  von  Thirsk ! 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  87 


CHAPTER   XII. 

"Thou  turn'st  mine  eyes  into  my  very  soul  ; 
And  there  I  see  such  black  and  grained  spots, 
As  will  not  leave  their  tinct." 


WHAT  has  she  seen  ?  What  heard  ?  There  has  been  no 
moment  given  him  in  which  to  recover  his  equanimity. 
So  that  his  open  perplexity  is  apparent  to  her.  It  appears 
to  amuse  her.  Looking  him  fairly  in  the  face  she  breaks 
into  low  laughter  that  has  a  touch  of  contempt  in  it. 

"  Well  met,"  she  says,  airily. 

"  That,  of  course,  if  you  allow  it,"  returns  he,  gallantly. 
He  has  recovered  himself  by  this  time,  and  now  awaits 
her  attack  if  it  is  to  be  made.  He  has  studied  Madame 
von  Thirsk  from  a  distance  for  the  last  year  or  so,  and  has, 
during  the  few  days  spent  now  at  B  rank  sine  re  with  her, 
come  to  one  or  two  conclusions  about  her. 

"  Yet  you  scarcely  seemed  overjoyed  to  meet  me  a 
moment  since,"  smiles  she,  in  her  swift,  curious  fashion. 

"  Natural  enough.  You  startled  me.  I  might  have 
hurt  you  coming  round  that  corner.  By-the-bye  I  nearly 
ran  you  down,  didn't  I  ?  "  carelessly,  but  cautiously. 

"  Very  nearly." 

"  Not  a  nice  thing  to  be  run  to  earth,  eh  ?  "  says  Staines, 
meaningly,  with  a  bold  look  at  her.  <l  But  you  see  I  was 
in  a  hurry,  and  didn't  expect  you  would  have  taken  up  a 
position  in  this  solitary  spot."  Again  she  is  aware  that 
he  is  watching  her. 

"  You  seemed  in  hot  haste,  indeed,"  returns  she,  still 
with  that  inexplicable  smile  that  is  momentarily  exasperat- 
ing him.  "  Quite  as  if  you  were  running  away  from  some- 
thing. What  was  it?"  glancing  at  him  from  under  her 
sleepy  lids.  "  A  second  disappointment  ?  " 

Staines'  eyes  contract. 

''Madame,"  replies  he  deliberately,  "you  speak  in  par- 
ables. A  second  disappointment  implies  a  first.  You 
allude  to  — 

Whatever  half-formed  plan  Madame  had  in  her  head, 
takes  shape  and  color  now.  She  leans  forward,  elevates 
her  shoulders,  and  makes  a  little  graceful  gesture  toward 
the  hall  where  Staines  has  just  had  his  interview  with 
Ladv  Branksmere. 


88  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Madame  is  beautiful ! "  she  whispers,  throwing  out 
her  exquisitely-shaped  hands  with  an  expressive  move- 
ment. Then,  with  a  complete  change  of  manner  that 
enrages  him  even  more  than  her  affected  gayety — "All! 
believe  it  or  not  as  you  will — I  have  indeed  felt  sorrow  for 
you,"  she  murmurs,  with  a  glance  full  of  deepest  sympathy. 

"  '  A  fellow  feeling'  "  quotes  Staines,  with  an  ugly  sneer, 
"'  makes  us  wondrous  kind.'  My  disappointment  as  you 
call  it,  was  hardly  greater  than  yours.  Seven  years  is  a 
long  time  in  which  to  strive,  only  to  be  at  last — undone  !  " 
Her  color  fades.  She  steps  back  involuntarily,  and  a 
dangerous  light  creeps  into  her  dark  eyes. 

"  Come  !  That  was  hardly  fair  of  me,"  laughs  Staines 
in  a  conciliatory  way.  "  But  it  was  your  own  fault — you 
led  up  to  it,  you  know.  You  shouldn't  bring  the  war  into 
the  enemy's  camp  unless  you  are  prepared  for  reprisals. 
Sorry  if  I  appeared  unchivalrous,  but  you  would  have  it, 
you  know." 

"You  mean?" exclaims  Madame,  forcing  the 

words  from  between  her  clenched  teeth. 

"  Pshaw  !  Nothing,  to  make  you  look  so  tragical,"  re- 
•  turns  Staines,  moving  on  a  step  or  two.  Madame  follow- 
ing, lays  a  firm  hand  upon  his  arm. 

"  You  do  not  leave  this,"  she  declares,  fiercely,  "  until 
you  have  explained  what  it  was  you  meant." 

"  That  Branksmere  was  as  good  a  parti  as  there  is  in 
England,"  retorts  he,  contemptuously.  "  Take  it,  then, 
as  you  insist  on  it." 

"You  know  nothing — nothing"  cries  she,  with  an  angry 
sob.  All  the  passionate  fire  of  love  that  has  been  consum- 
ing her  throughout  these  weary,  hopeless  years  springs 
into  arms  at  this  slight  that  has  been  cast  upon  it.  Were 
he,  Branksmere,  the  veriest  beggar  that  crawled  the  earth, 
her  whole  soul  would  have  gone  out  to  him,  as  it  went  out 
on  that  first  day  when — when — 

She  comes  back  to  the  present  hour  to  find  Staines  is 
talking  to  her  in  a  low,  earnest  tone. 

"Why  should  we  quarrel  over  the  fact  that  we  have  each 
made  a  discovery  of  the  other's  secret  ?  Let  us  be  com- 
rades, rather.  A  common  grievance  such  as  ours,"  with  a 
short  laugh,  "  should  have  the  effect  of  creating  between 
us  a  link  of  sympathy." 

He  holds  out  his  hand  to  her  as  though  desirous  at  once 
of  forging  this  link,  but  Madame  declines  to  see  it.  He 
comes  a  degree  closer  to  her. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  89 

"  Think,"  he  whispers,  impressively,  "  whether  I  can  be 
of  no  service  to  you  in  this  matter  ?  " 

"In  what  way,  sir?  " 

"  That  I  leave  to  your  woman's  wit  to  answer,"  returns 
he,  with  a  half-insolent  uplifting  of  his  brows. 

She  is  silent — her  eyes  bent  upon  the  ground.  That  she 
is  deeply  pondering  on  his  words  is  plain  to  him.  Very 
slowly  the  warm  color  recedes  from  her  lips  and  brow, 
and  a  heavy  frown  settles  upon  her  broad  forehead.  Her 
breath  comes  from  her  heavily,  and  her  mouth  is  com- 
pressed. It  is  evident  that  she  is  the  victim  of  a  fierce 
struggle,  now  taking  place  within  her.  She  is  in  many 
ways  an  unscrupulous  woman — a  woman  of  strong  pas- 
sions, capable  of  knowing  a  love  powerful  as  death,  or  a 
hatred  as  keen  and  lasting  as  that  love — yet  now  the 
thought  that  is  presenting  itself  to  her  in  all  its  naked  hid- 
eousness,  appals  and  disgusts  her. 

"  You  can't  make  up  your  mind,  then  ?  "  suggests  he, 
mockingly.  "  Perhaps  you  think  I  over-estimate  my  pow- 
er of  usefulness." 

"No.  I  don't  doubt  you  there,"  she  lifts  her  head  and 
looks  at  him  steadily.  Her  eyes  seem  to  burn  into  his. 

"  And  yet  you  shrink — you  hesitate.  I  tell  you  there  is 
no  need  for  compunction.  They  are  less  than  nothing  to 
each  other,"  says  the  tempter,  slowly. 

"It  is  of  him,  of  him  alone,  I  think,"  she  breaks  in, 
vehemently.  "As  for  her,  let  her  go,  I  owe  her  nothing 
but  hatred  for  a  studied  course  of  insolence  since  the  first 
hour  we  met.  But  there  is  his  happiness  to  be  con- 
sidered." 

She  has  thrown  off  the  mask  a  good  deal,  and  in  the  ex- 
citement of  the  moment  seems  to  feel  no  shame  in  baring 
her  heart  to  this  man. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  scornfully.  "  Is  it  not  open  to  all  the  world 
to  read  between  the  lines  ?  It  was  a  caprice — a  mere  pass- 
ing fancy  on  his  part — a  desire  for  a  pretty  face,  of  which 
lie  has  already  tired.  The  fancy,  the  caprice  is  dead." 

"  I  am  not  so  sure  of  that.     If  I  were "  she  pauses. 

"  You  would  feel  more  free  to  act  ?  Why,  look  into  it, 
as  it  stands.  Would  a  man  who  loved,  neglect  the  object 
of  that  love,  as  he  does  her?  Would  he  deliberately  and 
openly  betray,  in  a  thousand  ways  " — with  a  meaning  glance 
at  her — "  his  preference  for  another  ?  " 

"  There  is  no  such  preference  as  that  of  which  you  hint," 
returns  she,  gloomily. 


go  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

ft  There  you  wrong — yourself.  Yet,  granting  you  are 
right,  does  that  make  it  any  the  easier  for  you  to  prove  his 
love  for  her?  When  does  he  seek  her  side  ?  When  does 
a  tender  glance,  a  kindly  word  pass  between  them  ?  Has 
he  even  a  forced  srnile  for  her  ? " 

"  No And  yet —  •"  she  hesitates,  grows  suddenly 

silent,  and  Staines,  noting  the  quick  changes  in  her  mo- 
bile face,  plays  his  trump  card. 

"  Had  he  even  the  last  lingering  remnants  of  a  worn-out 
love  for  her,"  he  says,  with  cold  contempt,  "would  he  have 
invited  me  here  ?" 

"He  was  ignorant  of  your  former  relations  with  her. 
He  knew  nothing,"  cries  she,  eagerly.  "Nothing!  I  have 
it  from  his  own  lips." 

"  Then  he  lied  to  you,"  declares  Staines,  coolly,  giving 
voice  to  his  falsehood  in  a  clear  distinct  tone.  "  For  he 
had  the  whole  story  from  my  lips,  before  ever  I  accepted 
his  invitation.  Some  absurdly  Quixotic  impulse  drove  me 
at  the  moment  to  mention  it." 

"  Is  that  the  truth  ?"  asks  she,  in  a  terribly  eager  way. 
The  question  is  almost  a  whisper,  but  so  wild,  so  intense, 
that  it  thrills  through  him.  She  is  looking  at  him  with  her 
large  glittering  eyes  as  though  she  would  read  his  very 
soul. 

"  If  you  doubt  me,  ask  him"  returns  he,  boldly. 

She  sighs  deeply,  and  throws  up  her  head  as  if  suffocat- 
ing, and  he  knows  he  has  won  the  day,  and  gained  an  ally 
who  will — who  shall  be — of  incalculable  service  to  him  in 
the  gaining  of  the  abominable  end  he  has  in  view.  With 
Madame,  indeed,  the  struggle  is  at  an  end.  A  gleam  from 
within  is  lighting  up  her  dark  expressive  face — a  devilish 
gleam.  That  Staines  should  know  her  secret  is  bitter  to 
her,  but  that  she  should  suspect  it — she  !  If  treated  with 
coldness  now,  may  he  not  at  any  moment  betray  her, 
and  to  that  woman  of  all  others.  No,  that  shall  never  be  ! 
She  will  enter  into  a  compact  with  him,  and  so  purchase 
his  silence.  As  for  the  rest,  for  the  future  it  will  reveal 
itself.  And  if  a  fall  should  follow  on  the  footsteps  of  that 

haughty  spirit,  why,  why .  The  cruel  gleam  upon  her 

face  deepens  in  intensity,  yet  as  though  prompted  by  her 
good  angel  to  one  last  throb  of  compunction  she  turns  to 
Staines. 

"  You  love  her  ?  "  she  asks,  hurriedly. 

"  I  have  not  asked  you  if  you  love  him"  retorts  he, 
coldly. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  91 

"True."     She  winces  a  little. 

"  It  is  then  a  bond  between  us,  to  help  each  other  when 
we  can  ?"  demands  he. 

"A  bond — yes.  But  remember  I  pledge  myself  to  noth- 
ing," answers  she,  thoughtfully. 

No  explanations  follow.  There  is  no  word  of  counsel 
or  advice.  Madame  von  Thirsk  as  she  sweeps  slowly  away 
from  him  down  the  corridor  does  not  so  much  as  cast  a 
parting  glance  upon  the  man  with  whom  she  has  entered 
into  a  most  unholy  alliance. 


CHAPTER   XIII. 

"The  careful  cold  hath  nipt  my  rugged  rind 

And  in  my  face  deep  furrows  eld  hath  plight  ; 
My  head  bespent  with  hoary  frost  I  find, 

And  by  mine  eye  the  crow  his  claw  doth  wright 
Delight  is  laid  abed',  and  pleasure  past  ; 

No  sun  now  shines,  clouds  have  all  over-cast." 

MEANWHILE  Muriel  going  slowly  up  the  stairs  to  the 
Dowager's  room  feels  as  though  her  feet  are  clad  with 
leaden  wings.  If  she  had  been  victorious  in  the  late  inter- 
view with  the  man  who  had  once  been  so  much  to  her,  it 
was  certainly  a  victory  that  cost  her  dear.  However 
strongly  she  had  held  herself  at  the  time,  she  now  feels 
faint-hearted  enough  and  utterly  unstrung.  Alas!  what 
sweet  hours  he  had  recalled,  when  life  meant  liberty  and 
love,  and  she  was  Muriel  only — untitled,  unshackled,  free  ! 

And  that  last  accusation  of  his  had  smitten  her  sore. 
Had  she  wronged  him  ?  Had  she  betrayed  ?  Her  mind 
wanders  back  in  a  true  line  to  the  old  days,  the  old  glad 
moments,  when  she  had  strayed  with  him  through  meads 
and  flowering  tracts,  made  ricli  with  autumn's  dying  per- 
fumes ;  days  when  she  had  thought  of  him  as  the  one  man  in 
all  the  world  for  her.  If  she  had  then  shrunk  from  a  life  of 
poverty,  sweetened  even  though  it  might  be  by  love,  why, 
so  had  he  ! 

He  had  spoken  much  of  that  self-same  wondrous  love  in 
those  past  hours,  had  toyed  with  the  idea  of  marriage  ; 
had  presented  many  a  pretty  picture  of  wedded  happiness 
to  her  inward  view,  but  always  with  a  reservation.  As  her 
mind  now  gathers  about  that  past  time,  there  comes  to  her 
an  even  fuller  conviction  than  of  old,  that  there  had  always 


92  LADY  BRAhTKSMERE. 

inextricably  mingled  with  the  adoration,  a  tenderly  ex- 
pressed regret,  a  half-veiled  renunciation  of  the  joys  por- 
trayed, an  unspoken  yet  clearly  conveyed  reluctance  to 
'cast  his  all  upon  the  die.' 

To  her,  too — bred  in  it  as  she  was — poverty  had  seemed 
then,  all  but  a  crime.  She  had.  felt  every  word  he  had 
hinted  rather  than  said,  so  keenly — had  so  abhored  the 
idea  of  dwelling  forever  in  the  ungilded  paths  whereon 
her  childhood's  feet  had  trod,  that  she  hardly  paused  then 
to  tell  herself  that  he  was  counting  the  cost  as  no  true 
lover  should.  But  now,  to-day,  when  he  has  cast  the 
charge  in  her  teeth,  her  whole  soul  rises  up  in  arms,  and 
she  defends  herself  to  herself  with  passionate  vehemence. 

At  least  she  had  not  been  the  more  mercenary  of  the 
two.  They  had  been  quits  so  far,  and  when,  after  her  en- 
gagement to  Branksmere  that  wild  letter  of  upbraiding 
had  come  to  her  from  the  man  who  she  believed  would 
understand  and  acquiesce  in  her  decision — whose  own 
doctrines  she  felt  she  had  imbibed  and  was  now  acting  up 
to — she  had  been  struck  with  a  sudden  fear,  but  had  failed 
to  comprehend. 

She  had  quailed  indeed  when  she  thought  of  years  filled 
with  sordid  care,  but  it  was  he  who  had  carefully  pointed 
out  to  her  those  cares.  No  earnest  pleading  had  been 
used  to  give  her  strength  to  endure  for  dear  love's  sake 
alone.  Even  that  letter,  so  replete  with  angry  reproach, 
had  contained  no  entreaty  to  cast  aside  her  allegiance  to 
Lord  Branksmere,  and  fling  herself  with  honest  abandon- 
ment into  her  lover's  arms.  Some  hidden  strain  of  knowl- 
edge whispers  to  her,  that  she  would  not  now  be  Lady 
Branksmere  had  Staines  been  stancher,  more  persistent 
in  his  wooing  ;  that  there  might  have  been  a  moment  when 
she  would  have  counted  the  world  well  lost  for  what  is 
now  lost  to  her  forever  ! 

There  had  been  no  formal  parting  between  them — only 
a  last  scene,  that  had  not  been  spoken  of  by  him  as  final, 
though  to  Muriel  it  had  seemed  so.  Still  no  farewell  had 
been  spoken,  beyond  an  ordinary  one  that  breathed  of 
fresh  meetings  in  the  future — and  that  night  Staines  went 
up  to  town  for  an  indefinite  period,  and  next  morning 
Branksmere  had  arrived  ;  Branksmere  !  who  had  proposed 
to  her  the  year  before  and  had  been  refused,  and  who  now 
knelt  at  her  feet  again  beseeching  a  kinder  answer.  He 
had  sworn  he  loved  her,  and  she  had  believed  him. 

At  this  point  in  her  meditations,  Muriel  drops  into  a  low 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  93 

cushioned  seat  in  one  of  the  staircase  windows  and  laughs 
aloud,  softly,  but  with  an  indescribable  bitterness.  Yes  ! 
she  had  believed  him.  He  appeared  to  her  suddenly  as  a 
way  out  of  her  difficulty.  A  steady  barrier  should,  and 
must,  be  placed  between  her  and  Staines  forever;  Branks- 
mere  should  be  that  barrier  !  That  she  could  not  endure 
an  existence  bald  of  worldly  comforts  she  had  been  led  to 
believe  by  subtlest  means  ;  and  now  left  to  itself,  with  no 
strength  from  without  on  which  to  lean,  the  poor  reed 
broke! — She  accepted  Branksmere. 

And  now  ?  She  rises  wearily  from  her  seat  in  the  great 
painted  window,  and  goes  on  her  unwilling  way  to  the 
Dowager's  apartments.  Now  she  has  neither  lover's  nor 
husband's  love  !  One  she  cannot,  the  other  she  dare  not 
grasp.  Nothing  is  left  her  but  the  filthy  lucre  for  which 
she  has  paid  away  all  the  priceless  gladness  of  her  fresh 
young  life.  Alas  what  dead  sea-fruit  it  seems  within  her 
mouth. 

She  shivers,  a  little  as  she  reaches  the  heavy  hanging 
curtain  that  hides  the  entrance  to  the  corridor,  that  leads 
not  only  to  the  Dowager's  apartments,  but  to  those  of 
Madame  von  Thirsk.  She  stops  short,  and  clasps  her 
hands  together  as  though  very  cold,  then  pushes  back  the 
curtain  and  enters  the  dreary  corridor  within.  Beyond 
her  lies  the  other  curtain  that  hides  the  large  door  that 
leads  to  Madame's  own  rooms  ;  those  rooms  that  no  one 
may  enter  save  Madame  herself,  and — 

She  draws  a  heavy  breath.  A  sense  of  suffocation  weighs 
her  down.  It  is  the  first  time  she  has  been  here  since  that 
afternoon  when  Mrs.  Stout  had  escorted  her  through  the 
upper  parts  of  the  house  in  the  character  of  cicerone,  and 
the  remembrance  of  that  hour  lies  now  with  a  deadly 
weight  on  Muriel.  She  rouses  herself,  however,  and,  turn- 
ing resolutely  toward  old  Lady  Branksmere's  room,  knocks 
gently  at  the  door. 

It  is  opened  to  her  by  a  tall,  gaunt  woman,  with  a  pecu- 
liarly bloodless  face  and  eyes  deeply  set  and  colorless,  that 
may  once  have  been  pale-blue,  but  are  now  almost  as  white 
as  the  balls  that  surround  them.  She  is  a  woman  advanced 
in  years,  but  specially  muscular,  with  long,  lithe  fingers — 
bloodless,  too — and  a  length  of  jaw  that  suggests  the  idea 
that  the  mind  is  as  firm  as  the  body. 

She  drops  back  a  step  or  two  in  a  respectful  fashion  as 
Muriel  enters,  and  then  returns  to  her  station  beside  the 
bed. 


94  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

The  room  is  semi-lighted,  the  curtains  being  closely 
drawn  as  if  to  kill  all  remembrance  of  the  blessed  sunshine 
that  reigns  without.  A  smell  of  mould  pervades  the  air,  a 
dull,  damp,  sickly  odor  suggestive  of  the  idea  that  the 
windows  have  been  hermetically  sealed  for  many  years. 
Some  oak  chairs,  black  with  age  and  elaborately  carved, 
line  the  walls,  that  are  painted  a  dull  ochre  ;  arid  a  bureau, 
oak,  too,  and  blackened  by  time,  and  grim  and  uncompro- 
mising in  appearance,  reaches  half-way  up  to  the  ceiling, 
which  is  vaulted. 

A  sullen  fire  is  burning  in  the  huge  grate,  and  a  black 
cat,  gaunt  as  Mrs.  Brookes — who  had  opened  the  door  for 
Muriel — sits  upon  the  hearth-rug  staring  at  the  flickering 
flames  with  an  expression  of  diabolical  malignancy  upon 
its  ebon  face.  As  Muriel  advances,  this  brute  turns  its 
head  slowly  round  and  spits  at  her  in  a  malevolent  fashion. 
Muriel,  with  a  slight  shudder,  shrinks  away  from  it,  and 
Mrs.  Brookes  again  comes  forward. 

"Be  quiet,  then,  my  beauty,  my  sweetheart !"  she  mur- 
murs, absurdly,  to  the  creature,  that,  only  half  appeased  by 
her  soothing,  stands  erect  and  arches  its  monstrous  back 
and  follows  Muriel's  movements  with  its  baleful  eyes,  green 
as  emeralds. 

The  dull  flames  emit  a  duller  light  ;  through  the  closed 
curtains  a  feeble  ray  is  struggling  ;  Muriel  peering  anx- 
iously into  this  obscurity,  finds  at  last  the  occupant  of  the 
room  who  has  desired  her  presence. 

In  a  huge  fourposter  of  enormous  dimensions,  hung 
with  curtains  of  dingy  satin — that  perchance  a  hundred 
years  ago  was  bright  and  fresh — lies  a  figure,  a  mere  shell 
of  our  poor  humanity  !  A  wizened,  aged,  witch-like  face 
looks  out  from  the  pillows  ;  a  face  that  but  for  the  eyes — 
which  are  supernaturally  large  and  brilliant — might  well 
be  mistaken  for  a  piece  of  parchment,  and  would  probably 
have  gone  unnoticed  altogether  in  the  twilight-gloom  of 
the  apartment.  These  eyes  burning  with  their  inward  fire, 
convey  to  Muriel  the  sudden  fancy  that  they  have  been  the 
consuming  furnaces  which  have  reduced  the  attenuated 
frame  to  its  present  state  of  emaciation,  yet  have  had  the 
power  to  keep  the  life  within  it  all  these  interminable 
years. 

Two  gaunt  hands,  delicately  formed,  but  inhuman  in 
aspect,  and  more  like  claws  than  hands,  are  resting  on  the 
faded  but  gorgeous  counterpane  ;  every  now  and  then  they 
pluck  nervously,  spasmodically,  at  the  air.  The  lips,  flesh- 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  95 

less  and  drawn,  fail  to  conceal  the  toothless  gums  within  ; 
and  the  scant  and  hoary  locks  brushed  tightly  back  from 
the  forehead  in  the  fashion  of  a  past  era,  are  bound  by  a 
funereal  band  of  black  velvet  that  serves  to  heighten  the 
ghastliness  of  the  half-living  picture,  and  betray  more 
openly  the  skinny  proportions  of  the  weird  old  face. 

Repelled,  yet  fascinated,  Muriel  gazes  upon  her  hus- 
band's grandmother!  Although  this  is  not  her  first  intro- 
duction to  her,  she  now  sustains  a  severe  shock  as  she 
looks  again  upon  this  melancholy  wreck  of  what  once  was 
one  of  nature's  brightest  efforts — this  belle  of  a  bygone 
day  ;  this  poor  spent  frame  now  grown  repulsive,  that  the 
tomb  should  long  ago  have  sought  and  gained  ! 

The  Dowager  seems  unaware  of  her  presence  until  Mrs. 
Brookes,  stooping  over  her,  lays  her  hand  upon  her 
shoulder. 

"It  is  Lady  Branksmere,  Madam.  She  has  come  to  sec 
you  — at  your  request." 

"  Ay — ay.  I  know.  I  am  sick  of  the  name,"  returns 
the  old  woman,  querulously.  "  There  are  so  many  of  them. 
My  Lady  Branksmere  of  to-day — and  she  of  yesterday — 
and  she  of  the  day  before  !  Why  don't  some  of  'em  die — 
eh?" — she  looks  up  at  her  attendant,  writh  a  senile  indig- 
nation, as  though  blaming  her  for  the  longevity  of  the 
women  of  her  own  house.  Though  who  should  die  the  first 
but  she  herself! 

"Eh? — eh?"  she  persists,  striking  Mrs.  Brookes  with 
her  palsied  hand. 

"  I  don't  know,  Madam.  Time  will  do  it,  perhaps,"  re- 
turns the  attendant,  doubtfully.  Time,  it  seems  to  her, 
has  been  a  long  time  dancing  attendance  on  the  uncanny 
old  person  in  the  bed. 

"  Slaves  count  time,"  quarrels  the  miserable  wreck,  va- 
cantly. "  It  has  nothing  to  do  with  us.  Who  spoke  of  my 
Lady  Branksmere  ?  Was  it  you,  Brookes  ?  You  should 
know  better.  She  will  never  be  my  Lady  now — no — 
never ! " 

"  Hush,  Madam " 

"  But  what  of  her — the  little  one  ?  She  that  ought  to 
have  been  my  lady,  but  wasn't.  What  of  her,  Brookes  ?  Ts 
she  coming  to  me  ?  Tell  me,  woman,  or  I'll  strike  you  !" 

"  Not  to-day,  Madam,"  soothingly. 

"She  should  then.  Memory  is  quick  within  me.  All, 
all  comes  back  to  me  to-day.  Seven  years  ago,  Brookes. 
Seven  years.  My  poor  little  boy  !  my  poor  fellow  !  " 


96  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

She  is  beginning  to  ramble  hopelessly.  Her  claw-like 
hands  are  moving  convulsively,  and  her  eager,  feverish 
eyes  are  sparkling. 

"Your  ladyship  will  excuse  her,"  entreats  Mrs.  Brookes, 
turning  to  Muriel  with  a  sedate  curtsey.  "  It  is  not  one  of 
Madam's  good  days."  She  curtseys  again  when  she  has 
finished  this  apology,  but  not  a  muscle  of  her  face  stirs. 
Is  she  really  concerned,  or  too  accustomed,  perhaps,  to 
know  any  nervousness  ? 

"What  is  that  you  are  saying,  Brookes  ?"  cries  the  Dow- 
ager, shrilly.  "  And  who  is  that  lurking  behind  the  cur- 
tains? Let  'em  stand  forward!  D'ye  hear?  What  arc 
they  hiding  for,  eh?"  Here,  catching  sight  of  Muriel, 
memory  again  (dull  though  her  mind  is  with  regard  to 
present  things),  takes  fire,  and  she  knows  her.  Old  habits 
return  to  her — old  dignity.  It  is  quite  wonderful  to  see 
the  way  in  which  she  draws  herself  up,  and  bends  her  stiff 
old  body  to  the  young  woman  who  is  now  the  Queen  Reg- 
nant of  the  house  of  Branksmere. 

"  You  do  an  old  woman  much  honor  !  I  am  very  pleased 
to  see  you,  my  dear,"  she  says  proudly,  but  sweetly,  with 
the  full  return  of  the  grand  old  manner  that  had  been 
hers  half  a  century  ago.  "  Pray  be  seated.  Brookes !  a 
chair  for  my  Lady  Branksmere.  It  is  a  gracious  action  of 
yours,  my  dear,  to  grant  the  dying  a  few  minutes  out  of 
your  young  life  !  " 

Here,  alas  !  the  vital  spark  grows  dull  again,  and  re- 
turns to  its  sad  flickering  that  is  but  the  prelude  of  its 
death.  The  touch  of  strength  the  worn-out  brain  had  re- 
ceived, dies  away,  and,  stooping  forward,  the  old  woman 
twines  her  bony  fingers  round  Muriel's  white  wrist  and 
breaks  into  futile  mumblings — mutteringsborn  of  the  one 
thought  that  clings  to  her  tired  mind. 

"  Have  you  seen  her  yet  ?  The  little  thing  in  her  white 
gown  ?  "  she  asks,  mouthing  and  grinning  horribly.  "  Such 
a  pretty  creature.  It  isn't  you  I'm  talking  of,  you  will 
know,  because  you  are  Lady  Branksmere,  and  she  isn't. 
She  can't  be  now  they  tell  me.  But  she  was  the  prettiest 
little  soul,  and  all  in  white — in  white." 

"  Recollect  yourself,  Madam  !  "  whispers  Mrs.  Brookes, 
severely,  bending  over  the  bed  and  laying  her  hand,  with 
a  warning  pressure,  upon  the  skeleton's  arm.  It  may  have 
been  a  rather  strenuous  pressure  because  the  old  woman 
breaks  instantly  into  a  feeble  whimpering. 

"Go  away,  Brookes.     You  hurt  me.     Go  away,  I   say. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


97 


Nobody  understands  me  but  Thekla.  Where  is  Thekla. 
Ah  !  she  knows  the  little  one  !  " 

She  pauses  and  gazes  vacantly  at  Muriel.  Then  once 
again  her  dying  intellect  so  far  revives,  that  her  mind  re- 
curs vividly  once  more  to  the  subject  that  had  tilled  her 
before  Brookes'  interruption. 

"  Thekla  knows  ! — she  will  tell  you  !  "  she  whispers,  lean- 
ing toward  Muriel,  who  has  grown  very  pale.  The  old 
woman's  strange  words — the  evident  desire  of  the  attend- 
ant to  silence  her,  have  suggested  to  her,  strong  confirma- 
tion of  the  doubts  that  are  already  at  work  within  her. 
Seven  years  ago  Madam  had  said !  Seven  years  ago  was 
Madame  von  Thirsk  a  pale,  slender  maiden  ?  Did  she 
wear  a  white  gown  ?  Was  it  she  who  should  have  been 
Lady  Branksmere  in  her — Muriel's — place  ? 

She  leans  back  in  her  chair  and  tries  to  concentrate  her 
thoughts,  but  she  is  unnerved  and  unstrung,  and  the  effort 
to  analyze  her  fears  is  beyond  her.  Her  meeting  with 
Staines,  and  his  unjust  accusation,  had  upset  her  more 
than  she  was  quite  aware,  and  now  this  interview  with  the 
Dowager  has  brought  matters  to  a  climax. 

A  sensation  of  faintness  creeps  over  her  as  she  sits  still 
and  motionless  beside  the  fourposter,  hearing  but  not 
heeding,  the  idle  wanderings  of  its  occupant.  In  truth,  it 
seems  to  her  that  she  has  heard  enough,  when  she  has 
added  the  incoherent  ramblings  just  uttered  to  the  evi- 
dence of  her  own  senses  ;  the  Dowager's  broken  words — - 
(her  revelation  as  it  almost  seems  to  Muriel),  these  wild 
gibberings  of  a  crazy  old  woman  have  had  in  them,  doubt- 
less, the  one  great  grain  of  truth  ;  a  truth  that  forced  upon 
her  at  this  moment  seems  more  than  she  can  bear. 

A  longing  to  escape — to  get  away  from  her  immediate 
surroundings,  to  be  alone — takes  possession  of  her.  She 
rises  precipitately  to  her  feet. 

"  Stay,  stay  ! "  cries  the  Dowager,  stretching  out  her 
skinny  hand  as  if  to  detain  her  forcibly.  "  You  haven't 
told  me  yet  if  you  have  seen  her.  She,  who  ought  to  be 
you,  you  know  !  " 

"  But  it  is  seven  years  ago.  Seven  years  !  No,  Brookes," 
testily,  "  I  will  not  be  silent  ;  I  will  ask  her.  Why  should 
she  not  be  told.  It  is  a  sad  story,  and  my  Lady  Branks- 
mere here  seems  to  me  to  have  a  tender  heart.  Ah  !  it 
would  melt  a  harder  heart  than  her's  to  hear  the  story  of 
the  little  one.  Such  love,  such  devotion,  and  all  for 
naught.  Now  it  is  too  late  ! "  She  beckons  eagerly  to 


98  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

Muriel.  "  You  need  bear  no  malice,  my  dear  ;  it  is,  in- 
deed, too  late,  as  you  know.  Nothing  could  make  her 
Lady  Branksmere  now  !  Yet  that  is  what  she  craves — 
what  she  cries  for  night  and  day.  Sometimes  I  hear  her 
in  tfie  dead  of  night." 

She  leans  forward,  half  rising  in  her  bed,  and  stares 
wildly  at  the  opposite  wall  with  a  gaze,  however,  that 
pierces  through  the  solid  masonry  into  the  realms  of  a  dis- 
ordered fancy. 

"  I  don't  ask  you  if  you  see  her  now  ?  "  she  whispers, 
wildly  clutching  at  Muriel's  arm.  "I  can  see  her  for  my- 
self. Look  !  Look,  I  say.  She  is  there.  There  !  in  her 
little  white  frock,  with—  What  is  that,  Brookes  ?  What 
ist/iat?"  shouts  she,  violently.  "Is  it  blood — his  Hood? 
D'ye  see  the  red  spots  upon  her  gown  ?  They  are  his — 
his,  I  tell  you — his  heart's  blood  !  Drops  drawn  from  his 
pierced  breast !  Oh,  Arthur  !  Oh,  my  pretty  boy  !  " 

She  points  frantically  with  her  palsied  hand  toward 
space,  and  drops  back  exhausted  upon  her  pillow  inert — 
lifeless. 

"You  must  not  heed  her,  my  lady  ;  she  is  not  herself 
to-day,"  says  Mrs.  Brookes,  hurriedly,  her  face  looking  a 
degree  more  bloodless  than  usual.  "  My  late  lord's  death 
made  a  terrible  impression  upon  her.  She  sees  visions  at 
times,  or  fancies  she  does.  There  is  no  truth  in  anything 
she  says !  I  pray  you  remember  that,  Madam  !  He  was 
her  favorite  grandson,  you  see,  and  his  sudden  death, 
caused  by  such  awful  means,  unsettled  her  poor  brain." 

"I  know — I  understand,"  murmurs  Muriel,  in  a  stifled 
tone,  with  the  last  remnant  of  calm  that  she  can  muster. 
Releasing  herself  gently,  but  abruptly,  from 'the  Dowager's 
grasp,  now  grown  feeble  and  purposeless,  she  rushes  pre- 
cipitately from  the  room. 


CHAPTER  XIV. 

He  was  so  glad,  that  I  cannot  express. 
In  no  manner  his  mirth,  and  his  gladness. 

FINDING  the  hall-door  lying  hospitably  open,  he  enters 
the  house  without  the  usual  rat-tat,  and  traverses  the  hall 
without  meeting  a  soul.  It  is  so  unlike  the  Manor  to  be 
devoid  of  flesh  and  noise  even  in  unsuspected  quarters, 


LADY  BRAXKSMERE.  99 

that  thus  to  find  the  very  entrance  silent  and  deserted 
suggests  to  Mr.  Paulyn  very  sinister  possibilities.  He 
goes  farther  ;  but  still  no  sound  falls  on  his  anxious  ears. 
Listen  as  he  may,  there  come  to  him  no  squeals  from  the 
fat  twins,  no  violent  'arguments  in  Peter's  dulcet  bass,  no 
tearful  expostulations  on  the  part  of  Angelica,  no  indig- 
nant remonstrances  from  Margery.  Have  they  all  been 
spirited  away  ?  Has  Madame,  the  sister-in-law,  crushed 
their  youthful  gayety  ?  Where  is  the  riotous  band  of 
which  he  once  was  enrolled  a  member  ?  Where  are  the 
shouts  that  rang  last  year  ?  A  misgiving  creeps  over  the 
Honorable  Tommy.  Surely,  this  death-like  stillness  bodes 
no  good  !  His  cousins  are  in  the  hands  of  the  foe  ! 

The  library  is  reached  and  found  empty.  The  school- 
room is  invaded  with  a  sinking  heart ;  but  here,  too,  deso- 
lation reigns.  Good  gracious!  Where  are  they?  What 
on  earth  has  happened  ?  The  piano  is  lying  open,  and 
Mr.  Paulyn,  seating  himself  upon  the  music-stool — he 
never  can  keep  himself  off  a  music-stool — looks  mourn- 
fully down  upon  the  yellowing  keys. 

"  I  hope  the  new  importation  isn't  playing  the  very 
dooce  with  'em  all,"  he  soliloquizes  plaintively  ;  doubt, 
that  has  suddenly  grown  into  a  grim  conviction,  desola- 
ting his  tone,  which  naturally  is  cheerful  in  the  extreme. 
"  But  it  looks  bad.  No  yells.  No  skirmishing.  Not  so 
much  as  a  cushion  aimed  at  a  fellow's  head  from  behind  a 
half-opened  door.  It  does  look  poor!  It  is  one  of  two 
things — either  they  have  all  succumbed  to  the  plague  or 
the  cholera,  or  Billy's  wife  is  an  out-and-outer.  Well,  I'll 
solve  the  riddle  at  once.  If  any  of  them  are  still  in  the 
land  of  the  living,  this  will  fetch  "em." 

He  lays  violent  hands  upon  the  long-suffering  instru- 
ment, whereupon  thunders  uprise  from  it  fulfilled  with 
that  touching  melody  commonly  known  as  "  Tommy 
Dodd."  This  soft  and  soothing  air  rings  through  the 
room.  It  is,  indeed,  no  exaggeration,  and  only  allowing 
bare  justice  to  Mr.  Paulyn's  fingers,  to  say  it  rings  through 
the  house.  Mrs.  Billy  in  the  morning-room,  hearing  it, 
drops  her  flowers.  The  cook  in  the  kitchen  stays  to 
hearken  to  it,  with  uplifted  roller.  The  maid  in  the 
scullery  executes  a  small  war-dance  in  time  to  the  stately 
measure,  while  crying  aloud,  "Why,  that's  Master  Tommy, 
for  sure!"  Mr.  Bellew,  making  his  usual  entrance  into 
the  house  by  means  of  the  school-room  window,  is  so  stag- 
gered by  it,  that  he  pauses  midway,  with  one  foot  on  the 


ioo  LADY  BRAMKSMERE. 

balcony  still  and  one  on  the  carpet  inside.  And  Margery, 
rushing  wildly  through  the  hall,  darts  like  a  swallow  into 
the  old  room  and  literally  flings  herself  into  the  musician's 
arms. 

"Dear  old  thing!"  she  cries  ecstatically.  "  To  think 
you've  really  come  !  Oh,  Tommy,  I  say,  how  nice  it  is  to 
see  you  again  !  " 

She  gives  him  a  little  shake  as  if  to  make  more  sure  of 
him,  and  then  a  smart  thump  between  his  shoulders.  This 
thump  is  full  of  love  and  good  fellowship. 

"Why  there  you  are,  Margery,  old  girl — and  how  are 
you  ? "  returns  the  Honorable  Tommy,  drawing  her  down 
upon  his  knee,  and  expanding  into  a  broad  grin  of  the  very 
utmost  delight.  "  Pretty  well,  eh  ?  Bearing  up,  eh  ?  Tliafs 
right.  Never  say  die  is  your  motto,  I  take  it ;  and  let  me 
tell  you  I  admire  your  spirit." 

"You  ought  to,"  says  Margery,  gayly,  who  is  a  little  at 
sea  as  to  his  meaning.  "You  have  had  plenty  of  time  to 
study  it.  What  brought  you  down  at  this  ungodly  period  ? 
You,  who  are  so  fond  of  your  Pall  Mall  ?" 

"  I'm  not  sure,  unless  it  was  to  see  you,"  returns  Mr. 
Paulyn,  gallantly.  "  I  met  Branksmere  one  day  in  Picca- 
dilly, and  he  seized  hold  of  me  as  though  he  was  a  police- 
man. '  Come  alonger  me,'  said  he,  and  I  hadn't  much  of 
an  excuse  ready,  so  I  corned." 

"  It  doesn't  matter  a  bit  how  or  why  you  came,  so  long 
as  you  are  here,"  declares  Margery,  lovingly. 

All  this  you  may  be  sure,  is  creating  pure  rapture  in  the 
bosom  of  the  young  man,  who  is  still  standing  transfixed 
between  the  room  and  the  balcony.  His  eyes  are  glitter- 
ing by  this  time,  his  brow  is  black  !  To  say,  indeed,  that 
Mr.  Bellew  is  now  on  the  verge  of  laying  himself  open  to 
a  charge  of  manslaughter,  would  convey  to  you  but  a  small 
impression  of  the  real  state  of  his  mind.  Margery  !  Mar- 
gery !  sitting  on  that  fellow's  knee,  looking  into  his  eyes, 
and  actually  thumping  him  !  (That  loving  thump  had  gone 
to  his  very  soul.)  Good  heavens  !  What  a  sorry  fool  he 
has  been. 

He  brings  the  leg  that  has  been  lagging  on  the  balcony 
into  the  room,  with  a  resounding  thud  that  rouses  the  two 
at  the  piano.  They  both  look  up  at  him,  but  if  he  had 
expected  to  draw  forth  signs  of  guilt  upon  their  counte- 
nances, he  has  made  a  great  mistake.  So  far  from  being 
even  disconcerted  by  his  sudden  appearance,  Miss  Daryl 
maintains  an  unmoved  exterior,  and  is  sufficiently  lost  to 


LADY  BRAXKSMERE.  101 

all  feelings  of  remorse  as  to  continue  her  seat  upon  Mr. 
Paulyn's  knee. 

"There  you  are,  Curzon,"  she  says,  quite  carelessly — 
which  being  a  self-evident  fact  calls  for  no  rejoinder  from 
the  infuriated  young  man. 

"Ah,  Bellevv  !  Glad  to  see  you.  How  are  you,  old 
chap  ?"  asks  Paulyn,  who  seems  to  be  overflowing  with 
good  nature. 

"Quite  well,  thank  you."  In  a  freezing  tone,  and  with 
a  glance  full  of  the  deadliest  hatred. 

"That's  all  right!  So  am  I,"  declares  Mr.  Paulyn, 
cheerfully,  as  though  sure  of  the  other's  reception  of  this 
satisfactory  news.  "Oh,  by  Jove,  here's  Angelica."  He 
bundles  Margery  off  his  knee  without  apology,  and  hur- 
ries toward  his  younger  cousin,  who  pauses  when  she  sees 
him,  and  spreads  abroad  her  pretty  hands  in  sheer  amaze- 
ment, and  colors  generously. 

Like  a  pale  lily  she  stands,  erect,  slender,  half-child, 
half-woman.  Mr.  Paulyn,  who  is  doubtless  a  person  of 
good  taste,  seems  delighted  with  her,  and  kisses  her  warmly 
.n  cousinly  fashion,  an  infliction  to  which  she  submits 
calmly,  but  without  any  expressed  disapprobation.  She 
even  smiles  upon  him— but  from  a  distance,  as  it  were — and 
seems  rather  glad  than  otherwise  because  of  his  presence. 

"Well,  she  hasn't  starved  you,  at  all  events.  .You  were 
always  slight,  you  know,"  says  Tommy,  gazing  at  her  in- 
tently. 

This  remarkable  speech  is  received  in  an  amazed  silence, 
that  gives  time  for  the  door  to  be  again  flung  open  to  ad- 
mit the  twins,  who  rush  tumultuously  toward  him,  and 
fling  their  little  plump  arms  around  his  neck. 

"  Indeed,  I  might  even  go  further  and  say  she  has  fat- 
tened you,"  continued  Tommy,  holding  back  the  twins  at 
arms'  length,  both  to  study  their  proportions  and  to  avoid 
their  caresses,  which  are  numerous  and  clammy. 

This  remark  also  seems  full  of  puzzlement  to  those 
around  him  ;  even  the  twins,  who  never  think  of  anything 
under  the  sun,  are  roused  by  it,  and  look  inquisitive. 

"Well,  how  does  she  treat  you  ?"  asks  the  Honorable 
Tommy,  sinking  his  voice  to  a  mysterious  whisper.  "  Is  she 
supportable,  or  the  very  devil,  eh  ?  I'm  afraid  it's  the  latter. 
But  you'll  have  to  bear  up,  you  know.  '  A  frog  he  would 
a-wooing  go,  whether  his  mother  would  have  it  or  no  ! ' 
Old  song  !  'Member  it  ?  That's  your  case  with  Billy,  don't 
vou  see  ? " 


102  LADY   BRANKSMERE. 

"But "  begins  Margery,  eagerly. 

"Yes,  of  course.  I  quite  understand  all  that.  Beastly 
hard  upon  you  all.  But  what  I  say  is — don't  give  in  to 
her  too  much  !  Hold  up  your  heads.  March  !  Give  your- 
selves airs  !  There's  a  lot  of  you,  and  only  one  of  her,  and 
I  don't  see  why  the  crowd  shouldn't  win  the  day." 

"There  isn't  any  day  to  win,"  declares  Angelica,  lifting 
her  pencilled  brows.  "  It's  won  already." 

"  Then  more  shame  for  you — a  poor  spirited  lot!  "ex- 
claims Mr.  Paulyn,  scornfully.  "To  be  sat  upon  at  the 
very  first  assault.  I'm  disgusted  with  you  all.  I  believed 
there  was  some  sort  of  go  among  you,  and  now  ? — That 
kind  is  she,  eh  ?"  with  a  startling  drop  from  the  high  falu- 
tin'  to  the  ordinary  gossipv  tone. 

"She?  Who  on  earth,  Tommy,  are  you  alluding  to  ?" 
asks  Margery,  with  some  asperity. 

"Why  to  Mrs.  Daryl,  of  course,"  very  justly  aggrieved. 
"Who  did  you  think  ?" 

"  How  often  have  I  warned  you  that  your  incoherency 
will  be  your  ruin  !  From  the  way  you  spoke  one  might 
quite  as  easily  believe  you  were  talking  of  the  man  in  the 
moon  as  of  Billy's  wife." 

"If  you  exert  your  brain  a  little  bit,  you  will  remember 
that  I  said  '  she,'  "  retorts  Mr.  Paulyn,  who  is  now  deeply 
incensed.  •  "And  I  never  heard  of  a  woman  in  the  moon. 
Did  you  ?" 

"  Here  she  is  !"  cry  the  twins  at  this  moment  in  a  breath. 
All  turn  in  a  slightly  awed  manner  to  the  door. 


CHAPTER   XV. 

"He  said, 
Or  right  or  wrong,  what  came  into  his  head." 

AFTER  all  it  is  only  Mrs.  Billy  herself  who  meets  their 
expectant  gaze — Mrs.  Billy,  gowned  in  a  charming  cos- 
tume of  white  serge,  and  accompanied  by  Dick.  Her 
bonny  face  is  wreathed  in  smiles,  and  she  accosts  Mar- 
gery in  quite  a  radiant  fashion. 

"  See  here,  Meg.  I've  got  a  real  good  thing  to "  But 

nt  this  she  stops  dead  short,  and  the  good  thing  is  lost  for- 
ever. She  stares  inquiringly  at  Tommy,  who  is  gener- 
ously returning  the  attention,  having  his  round  eyes  fixed 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  103 

upon  her.  At  last  Mrs.  Billy  gives  way.  She  smiles 
broadly. 

"  You  don't  help  me,  Meg,"  she  says,  with  a  little  laugh. 
"  The  situation,  I  have  no  doubt  is  full  of  interest,  but  as 
yet  I  am  rather  in  the  dark.  Is  this,"  with  a  second  swift 
glance  at  Paulyn,  "  another  of  your  young  men  ?  " 

At  this  question,  uttered  in  the  airiest  manner  possible 
— Mr.  Bellew — who  up  to  this  has  maintained  a  silence 
charged  with  dynamite — breaks  into  a  short,  sepulchral 
laugh  !  It  ends  almost  as  it  began,  and  nobody  takes  the 
slightest  notice  of  it  except  Margery,  who  casts  upon  him 
a  glance  fraught  with  many  meanings. 

"  Certainly  not,"  she  says,  in  answer  to  the  question. 
"It  is  only  Tommy.  Tommy  Paulyn  ;  you  know." 

"Why,  yes,  certainly,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  beaming  upon 
the  Honorable  Tommy,  and  holding  out  to  him  a  friendly 
hand.  "  When  did  you  come,  eh  ?  I  seem  to  have  known 
you  for  centuries,  the  girls  talk  so  much  about  you." 

"  The  girls  "  look  scornful — Tommy  grins. 

"They  would,  you  know—  "  he  says,  giving  his  shirt 
collar  a  cenceited  pull.  "They  are  so  fond  of  me." 

Mrs.  Daryl  laughs. 

"Isn't  it  true,  Angelica?"  persists  Mr.  Paulyn,  un- 
daunted by  the  dark  looks  cast  on  him  by  that  sedate 
maiden.  "  Don  t  you  love  me  ?" 

"  Have  I  said  so,  Tommy  ? "  asks  she,  in  her  quaint, 
grave,  quakerish  fashion. 

"  A  thousand  times,"  replies  he. 

"  I  will  not  contradict  you.  I  leave  it  to  your  con- 
science !  "  says  the  slim,  tall,  childish,  little  thing,  with  a 
lovely  reproach  in  her  soft,  steady  eyes. 

"  You  leave  it  in  safe  quarters  then,"  declares  the  irre- 
pressible Tommy,  who  seems  to  find  a  special  joy  in  teas- 
ing her.  "You  have  named  as  umpire  in  this  case  about 
the  best  thing  of  its  kind.  Don't  mind  her,  Mrs.  Daryl, 
she  adores  me.  Come  over  here,  Angelica,  and  sit  beside 
me.  I  have  a  whole  budget  of  news  to  open  to  you." 

He  backs  toward  a  sofa  as  he  speaks — a  patriarchal 
piece  of  furniture  that  has  been  in  the  family  for  genera- 
tions. 

"No,  I  will  not,"  says  Angelica,  with  all  the  sweet,  cold 
sternness  of  a  child.  "  You  have  not  said  what's  true — I 
will  not  go  near  you." 

"  Then  you'll  be  sorry  presently,"  says  Mr.  Paulyn, 
with  conviction.  "  When  I'm  gone  !  I  shall  only  be  here 


104  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

for  a  week  or  so  at  the  farthest,  and  who  knows  when  you 
will  see  me  again  ! "  Here  he  seats  himself  heavily  upon 
the  ancient  sofa,  which  creaks  aloud  in  an  expiring  agony, 
Tommy  being  no  small  weight.  "  I'm  a  bird  of  passage, 
you  know  ;  here  to-day,  and  gone — 

The  word  "  to-morrow  "  is  squealed  out  in  a  stifled  tone, 
the  old  sofa  having  given  way  beneath  him  and  buried 
him  among  its  ruins.  In  his  exit  Mr.  Paulyn  may  be  said 
to  have  surpassed  himself,  naught  of  him  being  left  to  the 
admiring  audience  save  a  pair  of  perfectly  appointed  legs. 
Heels  up  the  Honorable  Tommy  disappears  from  view. 

But  these  heels  being  discovered  a  little  later  on,  to  be 
full  of  animation,  and  indeed,  kicking  vigorously,  the  un- 
happy victim  of  a  sofa's  weakness  is  once  more  hauled 
into  sight  by  those  around. 

"Well,  I'm  da .  I'm  bio .  Oh,  confound  it!" 

gasps  he,  growing  irritable  over  his  inability  to  give  way 
to  naughty  language  in  the  presence  of  the  girls.  "  What 
the  dooce  is  the  good  of  a  sofa  like  that,  eh  ?  Regular 
man-trap,  what  ?  I'll  take  jolly  good  care  I  don't  trust 
myself  to  its  tender  mercies  again." 

"You  have  taken  care,"  cries  Margery,  who  is  roaring 
with  laughter.  "  It's  in  bits,  poor  old  thing.  And  such 
an  old  friend  as  it  was,  too  !  You  ought  to  be  ashamed  of 
yourself,  Tommy." 

"Well,  I'm  not,"  says  Tommy,  and  then  he  joins  in  with 
the  majority  and  laughs  perhaps  the  loudest  of  them  all 
at  his  mishap.  Even  Mr.  Bellew  has  been  so  far  im- 
pressed by  the  scene  as  to  forget  his  wrongs,  and  give  way 
to  moody  mirth  ;  but  now,  recollecting  himself,  goes  back 
once  more  to  gloom,  and  the  shadow  of  the  window-cur- 
tains. 

"Are  you  staying  at  Branksmerc.? "  asks  Dick.  "Mu- 
riel said  something  about  your  coming." 

"  Yes,  at  Branksmere.  Fine  old  place.  By  the  bye," 
glancing  round  him,  confidentially  and  evidently  accept- 
ing Mrs.  Billy  as  a  confidante  upon  the  spot.  "  I  never 
saw  anything  so  awful  as  Muriel  is  looking!  Like  a 
handsome  ghost.  White  as  paper,  don't  you  know,  and 
her  eyes  as  big  as  a  pond." 

"  Elegant  description  !  "  murmurs  Dick,  admiringly. 
"  Been  getting  it  up,  Tommy." 

"  She  regularly  frightened  me,  I  can  tell  you.  I  used  to 
be  spooney  about  that  girl,"  confesses  Mr.  Paulyn,  in  a 
loud  clear  voice.  "  I  loved  her  like — like — well,  like  any- 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  105 

tiling  you  know  ;  and  now  to  find  her  so  pale  and — and 
still,  rather  took  it  out  of  me.  Somebody  ought  to  see  to 
it,  you  kno\v.  Branksmere  must  be  treating  her  very 
queer  to  bring  her  to  such  a  pass.  I  can't  get  her  out 
of  my  head,"  declares  Mr.  Paulyn,  earnestly.  "  Kept 
dreamin'  of  her  all  last  night." 

"You're  in  love  with  her  still,"  laughs  Mrs.  Billy,  gayly  ; 
"  that's  what's  the  matter  with  you."  She  has  caught  a 
nervous  light  in  Margery's  eyes,  and  thus  comes  to  her 
support  and  comfort. 

"Not  a  bit  of  it,"  says  Tommy,  stoutly.  "Only  she 
worries  me.  She's  as  good  as  my  sister,  you  know.  In 
fact,  all  the  girls  here  make  up  the  only  idea  of  home  I've 
ever  known.  And  I'm  certain  Muriel  — 

"  Is  quite  happy,"  interrupts  Margery,  decisively,  her 
face  a  little  pale.  "Why,  what  silly  notion  have  you  got 
into  your  head  now  ?  Is  Muriel  never  to  have  a  headache  ? 
— never  to  look  pale  ?  Is  she  such  a  favorite  of  the  gods 
that  all  the  ills  of  life  are  to  be  held  back  from  her  ?" 

"  What  I  want  to  know  is,"  says  Mr.  Paulyn  who  is 
hopelessly  unimpressed  by  this  eager  defence,  "why  she 
married  Branksmere.  He's  a  good  old  chap  enough  and  I 
really  like  him,  but  there  was  that  other  fellow,  Staines  ; 
he's  staying  there  now  by  the  way — dooced  bad  taste  of 
him,  J  think — well !  she  was  going  to  marry  him  awhile 
ago,  eh  ? " 

"  I'm  jolly  glad  she  didn't,"  says  Dick. 

"  So  am  I,"  supplements  Angelica.  "  Dancing-master 
sort  of  man  !  " 

"  She  married  Branksmere  because  she  chose  to  do  so," 
declares  Margery,  slowly.  "  Who  shall  arrange  for  her  her 
reasons." 

"  Not  I  for  one,"  says  Tommy.      "  But " 

"  You  will  understand  that  there  are  to  be  no  '  buts'  in 
this  case,"  interrupts  Margery  suddenly,  with  a  little  flash 
of  anger.  "  I  will  not  have  Muriel's  motives  publicly  can- 
vassed. Do  you  hear  ? "  Her  eyes  are  bright,  her  lips 
tremulous. 

"Ah!  I've  discovered  it,"  cries  Mrs.  Billy  at  this  uncer- 
tain moment,  with  the  brisk  air  of  one  who  has  at  last 
achieved  a  victory  over  a  teacherous  memory. 

"  What  ?  "  asks  Angelica,  eagerly. 

"  What  it  was  I  was  going  to  say  to  Meg  when  first  I 
came  into  the  room.  It  escaped  me  then,  but  now  I  have 
it — recaptured.  Margery,  a  word  with  you." 


106  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

She  draws  Meg  aside,  out  of  hearing,  out  of  the  late  dis- 
cussion altogether,  and,  whatever  she  says  to  her,  in  a 
minute  or  two  the  angry  flush  fades  from  the  girl's  face, 
and  she  grows  calm  again,  if  still  a  little  sad. 

As  for  Tommy,  he  is  left  upon  the  field  in  a  distinctly 
injured  frame  of  mind. 

"It  is  an  odd  thing  if  I  can't  discuss  the  girls  well-being 
among  themselves,"  he  protests  indignantly.  "It  is  all 
very  fine  their  pretending  to  be  so  independent,  but  I'm 
their  cousin,  and  a  sort  of  a  guardian,  by  Jove.  In  fact, 
I  feel  as  if  they  were  all  flung  upon  my  shoulders  now, 
somehow.  Billy  is,  of  course,  too  much  taken  up  with 
his  late  purchase  to  see  anything  beyond  his  nose,  and 
Peter"  (mildly),  "  is  about  the  biggest  fool  I  know  ?" 

At  this  one  of  the  twins  bursts  into  a  fit  of  inextinguish- 
able laughter.  So  pure,  so  jolly  it  is,  that  perforce  most 
of  the  others  chime  in  with  it.  Mr.  Paulyn,  however,  re- 
gards the  outburst  with  a  grave  eye. 

"That  child's  not  well,"  he  says  slowly.  "Somebody 
had  better  look  to  it.  If  that  severe  paroxysm  continues 
much  longer  I  wouldn't  answer  for  the  consequences." 

"What  is  it,  May,  Blanche?"  asks  Dick,  who  generally 
addresses  each  of  the  twins  by  both  their  names,  so  as  to 
make  sure  of  them.  But  May  is  still  beyond  speech. 

"  Pat  her  on  the  back,  somebody,  mild'ly  but  firmly,"  en- 
treats Mr.  Paulyn  generally,  shifting  his  glass  from  his 
right  to  his  left  eye.  "Give  it  her  strong.  Now  then, 
my  poor  child.  Better,  eh  ?  Well  enough  to  explain  ?" 

"It's  only  this,"  cries  May,  with  a  faint  relapse  into  her 
explosive  state,  "  that  what  you  just  now  said  of  Peter,  is 
exactly  what  he  said  of  you  yesterday,  that  you  were  the 
'biggest  fool  unhung.'  That  was  how  he  put  it." 

"Ah!  an  improvement  on  my  little  speech,"  declares 
Mr.  Paulyn,  unmoved.  "Peter,  if  a  little  wanting,  is  still 
a  specially  nice  fellow,  and  to  think  me  the  biggest  fool 
unhung  only  proves  the  truth  of  my  opinion  of  him.  You 
agree  with  me,  Bellew?"  dragging  into  the  foreground 
the  morose  young  man  among  the  window-curtains. 

"  Do  I  ?"  says  he,  in  a  tone  that  warns  Mr.  Paulyn,  "it 
will  be  unsafe  to  follow  up  the  argument." 

"What  is  the  matter  with  you  this  morning,  Curzon  ?" 
asks  Margery,  who  has  again  joined  the  throng.  "You 
look  to  me  so  sour,  that  I  shouldn't  think  you  would  agree 
with  anyone." 

"  I  don't  want  to,"  returns    Mr.  Bellew,  with  unwonted 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  107 

force.  His  wrongs  burn  within  him,  and  his  anger  waxes 
warm. 

"  Lucky  you  !  as  matters  stand." 

"  I  wonder  you  have  the  hardihood  even  to  address  me," 
breaks  out  he  in  a  vehement  undertone — his  wrath  at  last 
getting  the  better  of  him.  He  does  not  wait  for  her  an- 
swer to  this,  but  turns  abruptly  aside,  leaving  her  amazed 
and  indignant,  and  in  fact,  as  she  whispers  to  herself,  with 
a  good  deal  "  in  for  him  !  " 


CHAPTER  XVI. 

"Frowning  they  went." 

MRS.  BILLY  is  still  laughing  over  May's"  revelation  of 
Peter. 

"Poor  Peter,"  she  is  saying,  "what  a  shame  to  betray 
him.  He  certainly  does  say  funny  tilings  at  times." 

"Not  so  funny  as  Dick,"  breaks  in  Blanche,  airily,  who 
thinks  she  sees  her  way  to  creating  a  sensation  at  least 
equal  to  May's.  "  He  told  us  all  about  you  before  you 
came.  But  I  don't  think  he  could  have  known,  because 
what  he  said  wasn't  a  bit  like  you." 

"What  did  he  say  ?  Was  it  too  flattering  a  picture  he 
drew  ?"  asks  Wilhelmina,  laughing  again. 

"  Blanche  !  "  calls  out  Dick,  who  has  grown  very  red. 
"Go  fetch  me  my  fishing  rod  from  the  den,  and  I'll  go 
and  get  you  some  trout  for  your  breakfast  to-morrow." 

"  Not  until  you  have  given  me  Dick's  portrait  of  me, 
drawn  from  his  inner  consciousness,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl,  mis- 
chievously. "Now  begin — I  was — 

"  Tall — very — very  big,"  nods  the  child,  solemnly.  "  And 
you  are  quite  little  after  all.  He  said  too,  that  you  would 
be  a  dreadful  woman — a  sort  of  an  Orson  !  and  that  you 
would — 

"  Blanche  ! —     "  in  an  agony  from  Dick. 

"  You  would  hate  little  girls  like  me  and  May,  and  go 
about  the  farm  all  day  in  topboots  and  leggings.  You 
wouldn't  like  leggings,  would  you  now  ?" 

"No,  no,"  assents  Mrs.  Billy. 

"And  he  said  you  would  always  carry  a  cart-whip  with 
you,  to  strike  the  farm  people  with,  just  like  Legree,  and 
Sambo,  and  Jumbo — rec'lect  ?" 


io8  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Perfectly.  Oh  !  Dick !  and  so  that  was  what  you 
thought  of  me.  Say,  Billy,"  accosting  Mr.  Daryl,  who  has 
suddenly  appeared  in  the  doorway.  "  A  fetching  descrip- 
tion, wasn't  it  ? " 

"  I'd  have  known  it  anywhere,"  says  Daryl,  who  is  now 
shaking  hands  with  and  welcoming  Tommy.  "Staying 
with  Muriel,  eh?"  he  asks. 

"  I'll  tell  you  something,"  says  Blanche,  who  is  busy 
adorning  all  Wilhelmina's  buttonholes  with  primroses. 
"  Muriel  isn't  a  bit  like  the  rest  of  us.  Is  she  now  ?  When 
she  gets  in  a  rage — 

"  Which  is  about  once  in  a  blue  moon,"  interposes  An- 
gelica. 

"  She  never  stamps,  or  fumes,  or  boxes  people's  ears  as 
Meg  does " 

Here  everybody  laughs  involuntarily. 

"As  anybody  would  do,"  corrects  Blanche,  with  a  peni- 
tent glance  at  Margery.  "  She  only  stands  straight  up, 
like  this,"  drawing  up  her  little  fat  body  into  an  absurd 
attempt  at  dignity.  "And  opens  her  eyes  wide,  like  this, 
and  fastens  up  her  fingers,  so  !  It  is  terrifying,  I  can  tell 
you,"  with  a  salient  nod  and  the  expressive  little  shrug  of 
the  shoulders  that  is  an  heirloom  in  the  Daryl  family.  "  We 
never  vexed  Muriel  if  we  could  help  ourselves." 

"  Muriel  was  clever,  it  seems  to  me,"  exclaims  Mrs.  Billy. 
"  I  wish  you  to  understand,  Billy,  that  now,  at  last,  I  know 
the  way  to  manage  you.  The  wisdom  of  babes  is  astound- 
ing. When  next  you  give  me  a  bad  time  /shall  be  terri- 
fying. Blanche  has  just  shown  me  how  1  shall  draw  myself 
up,  so,"  throwing  herself  into  a  pretty,  but  exaggerated 
position,  "  and  open  my  eyes,  so  ;  and  close  my  fingers 
upon  you,  so,"  giving  him  a  dainty  little  pinch,  "and  then 
you'll  be  done  for  in  no  time!"  She  looks  so  bright,  so 
gay,  so  replete  with  honest  life,  so  defiant,  yet  so  loving 
withal,  that  Billy  must  be  forgiven  for  resorting  to  instant 
measures  for  the  reducing  of  her  to  order.  He  gives  her 
first  a  sound  shake  and  then  a  sound  kiss. 

"And  that's  what  Til  do  !  "  says  he. 

"  Billy!  what  a  Barbarian  you  are  !  "  cries  she,  blushing 
hotly  at  this  breach  of  etiquette,  but  as  they  are  all  enjoy- 
ing her  discomfiture,  she  gives  up  expostulation,  and  pres- 
ently her  laugh  is  the  clearest  and  merriest  among  them. 

"  Pity  the  ball  next  Thursday  isn't  a  fancy  one,"  says 
Angelica.  "You  could  manage  to  look  a  part  I  am  sure. 
As  a  rule,  I  ana  told,  the  Madame  Favarts  look  like  Joan 


LADY  BRA NKSMERE. 


109 


of  Arcs,  and  the  Marie  Stuarts  like  Serpolettes.  That  must 
rather  destroy  the  effect." 

"What  are  you  going  to  wear,  Meg?"  asks  Tommy 
Paulyn. 

"Nothing." 

"  'Nothing.'  My  dear  girl,  consider.  We  are  advanced 
enough  in  all  conscience,  but — there  still  is  a  line  !" 

"I'm  notgoing,"  says  Miss  Daryl.   "That  is  what  I  mean." 

"  Not  going?" 

"  No.  The  fact  is,  I  haven't  a  gown,"  declares  Margery, 
bluntly,  disdaining  subterfuge,  and  secure  in  the  thought 
that  it  is  too  late  for  anyone  touched  by  her  state  to  order 
one  for  her." 

"Nonsense,  Meg,"  cries  Mrs.  Daryl,  sharply.  "Of 
course  you  are  going.  Why,  your  gown  came  half  an  hour 
ago  by  the  mid-day  train.  I'm  wool-gathering  to-day. 
That  is  another  thing  I  forgot  to  tell  you.  It  isupst " 

But  there  is  no  longer  a  Margery  to  address.  Miss 
Daryl  has  flown  from  the  room,  and  presently  returns  to 
them  with  a  mystic  mass  of  tulle  and  lace  carried  rever- 
ently between  her  outstretched  arms. 

"Ah  !  Willy,  what  can  I  say?'  whispers  she;  tears  in 
her  soft  eyes. 

"Why  you  little  pretty  goose  !  Did  you  think  I  could 
enjoy  myself  without  you  ?  It  is  all  selfishness,"  smiles 
Wilhelmina. 

"There  is  Peter!"  cries  Margery,  presently,  in  an  ex- 
cited tone  (they  have  all  gone  into  raptures  over  Worth's 
last  triumph  by  this  time).  "He  is  coming  across  the 
lawn.  He  must  see  it  too."  She  runs  to  the  window  and 
waves  her  handkerchief  with  frantic  grace. 

"Peter!  Peter!  Peter!  Pi — i — i — per,"  calls  she,  gay  ly. 
At  last  he  hears  her,  and  leisurely  (being  ignorant  of  the 
greatness  of  the  occasion)  crosses  the  lawn  lower  down 
and  comes  up  to  her. 

"  Why  on  earth  can't  you  hurry  yourself,"  cries  she. 

"The  day  is  long — and  patience  is  a  virtue  to  be  culti- 
vated ! " 

"Perhaps,"  ironically,  "You  think  you  have  it." 

"I  knoui  I  have  it." 

"  Pouf !     How  men  deceive  themselves  : 

'  Patience  is  a  virtue, 
Catch  it  if  you  can  ; 
It  is  seldom  in  a  woman. 
But  never — never — NE-VER  in  a  man  1 ' 


no  LADY  BKANKSMERE, 

However,  don't  mind  that,  Peter!  come  in  until  I  show  you 
my  new  gown  that  Willy  has  given  me.  Isn't  it  a  beauty  ? 
A  lovely  thing  ?" 

"  It  is  indeed  a  charming  dress,"  says  Peter,  looking  at 
Wilhelmina  as  gratefully  as  though  the  gift  to  this,  his  fa- 
vorite sister,  had  been  made  to  himself. 

''Where  is  Curzon  ?  "  he  asks  presently.  "I  thought 
he  was  here." 

At  this  they  all  looked  round. 

"  He  certainly  was  here  a  minute  or  two  ago,"  says 
Dick,  who  has  been  heaping  ashes  on  his  head  ever  since 
Blanche's  disclosure,  but  now  thinks  it  better  to  assert 
himself,  if  only  to  see  how  the  land  lies. 

"  He  went  away,"  says  little  May,  blandly,  "  he  was 
cross  with  Meg,  and  I  think  lie  didn't  like  Willie  to  give 
her  the  pretty  new  frock,  because  the  moment  he  saw  it 
he  went  out  of  the  window."  Oh  !  terrible  eyes  of  in^ 
fancy — what  smallest  mood  escapes  you  !  Margery  feels 
that  the  gaze  of  those  assembled  is,  by  this  untoward 
speech,  fastened  expectantly  upon  her. 

"  I  think  he  was  vexed  about  something,"  she  stammers. 
"  But  I  don't  know  what  it  was." 

"  He  is  walking  up  and  down  the  garden,"  cries  Blanche, 
who  has  been  peeping  round  the  window.  "  He  has  his 
eyes,"  excitedly,  "  glued  to  the  ground.  I'm  sure,  I'm  certain 
he  is  looking  for  cockroaches  !  " 

"  Looking  for  a  reason  for  his  ill-temper  more  likely," 
says  Margery  disdainfully. 

"Go  and  find  him,  and  have  it  out,"  says  Mr.  Paulyn, 
good-naturedly. 

''Why  should  I?  One  would  think  it  was  a  tooth  you 
were  talking  about!"  returns  Miss  Daryl  indignantly. 
"Go  and  have  it  out  with  him  yourself.  He  was  looking 
daggers  at  you  all  the  time  he  was  indoors.  What  have 
/got  to  do  with  him  ?" 

"  I  leave  your  own  innate  sense  of  truth  to  answer  that 
question,  Margaret,"  says  Mr.  Paulyn  solemnly. 

"No  you  don't,"  wrathfully,  "you  want  to  answer  it 
yourself.  It  is  a  most  extraordinary  thing,  Tommy, 
that  you  will  interfere  in  the  affairs  of  other  people." 

"It  is  my  opinion  that  you  have  had  a  right  down 
flare-up  with  him,"  says  the  Honorable  Tommy,  un- 
abashed. 

"  Do  you  really  think,  after  all  your  experience,  that 
such  an  opinion  as  yours  is  of  any  consequence  at  all  ?  " 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  in 

"  A  reg'lar  shindy,"  persists  Mr.  Paulyn,  untouched  by 
this  scathing  remark. 

"Pshaw!"  exclaims  she,  in  an  accent  of  unmixed 
scorn,  and  stepping  through  the  southern  window  may  be 
seen  presently  marching  off  in  the  'direction  of  the  wood, 
a  route  that  will  convey  her  far  from  the  garden  made  ob- 
noxious by  Mr.  Bellew's  presence. 

She  is  hardly  gone  upon  her  solitary  journey,  when  the 
upper  window  is  darkened  by  the  incoming  form  of  that 
moody  young  man.  He  looks  forlorn  and  crestfallen  and 
altogether  out  of  it,  as  one  might  say.  He  comes  awk- 
wardly in,  and  gazes  eagerly,  but  somewhat  shamefacedly, 
around,  and  then  looks  distinctly-blank. 

"  Looking  for  Margery  ?  "  asked  Peter  blithely. 

"No.  Oh  no,"  returns  Bellew,  with  a  miserable  at- 
tempt at  a  lie. 

•  "  If  you  are,"  insists  Peter,  with  a  noble  disregard   of 
this  feeble  assertion,  "you'll  find  her  in  the  beech  wood." 

"She  is  only  just  gone,"  puts  in  Mr.  Paulyn,  with  an 
encouraging  air.  "The  trail  is  still  fresh.  .  If  you  hurry 
you'll  catch  it." 

"  I'll  catch  it,  anyway,"  returns  Mr.  Bellew,  darkly,  as 
with  a  gloomy  eye  he  drops  once  more  on  to  the  veranda, 
and  turns  his  footsteps  in  the  track  of  his  false  love. 


CHAPTER  XVII. 

The  Spring  half  raised  her  drowsy  head 

Besprent  with  drifted  snow, 
"  I'll  send  an  April  day,"  she  said, 

"  To  lands  of  wintry  woe.'' 
He  came — the  winter's  overthrow — 

With  showers  that  sing  and  shine, 
Pied  daisies  round  your  path  to  strow, 

To  be  your  Valentine. 

IT  is  now  close  upon  noon.  In  the  wood  a  sombre  light, 
sweet  and  delicate,  is  playing  upon  the  opening  buds  and 
the  greening  branches.  Through  the  heavy  fir-trees  the 
sun  is  glinting,  making  warm  patches  of  color  upon  the 
mossy  sward.  The  dells  and  smoother  bits  of  grass  are 
gay  with  primroses  and  daffodils,  and  one  tiny  hillock 
over  yonder,  is  an  actual  white  and  purple  glory  of 
hyacinth  and  blue  bells.  There  are  touches  of  coming 


112  LADY  BRANA'SMERE. 

summer  in  all  the  air,  in  the  widening  leaves,  the  dancing 
rays,  the  warm,  springy  feeling  of  the  turf  beneath  one's 
feet. 

The  song  of  thrush  and  linnet  greets  one  from  every 
bough.  The  sky  is  blue  as  blue  can  be  ;  the  soft  gi~ay 
feathery  buds  in  the  hedgerows  are  growing  fat  ;  earth 
hath — 

"  Put  forth  a  thousand  sudden  flowers 
To  spread  a  couch," 

and  a  languorous  wind  makes  plaintive  music  in  the 
beech-grove  below. 

The  pale  dog-violets  have  all  burst  out  a-flowering,  and 
already  the  meadows  are  gay  with  marguerites,  white  and 
yellow.  But  the  finest  flower  among  them  all  is  the  fair, 
pensive  maiden,  with  lily  drooping  head,  who  steps  be- 
tween them  with  a  careless  grace,  and  crossing  the  bril- 
liant meads  enters  the  cool,  dark  woods  beyond. 

She  is  not  singing  as  is  her  wont ;  but  goes  with  bent 
head,  and  with  lips  mute  and  half-saddened,  and  with 
lowered  lids.  Swiftly,  too,  she  goes — not  lingering  to 
gaze  with  loving  eyes  at  each  fresh-born  wonder  at  her 
feet — or  to  drink  in  more  deeply  the  full  ecstasy  of  the 
air,  or  to  hearken  to  the  glad  oratorios  the  birds  are  giving 
in  the  mystic  recesses  of  the  wood,  but  hastening  always 
as  though  to  escape  from  her  very  self. 

Perhaps  it  is  sometimes  easier  to  escape  from  one's  self 
than  from  a  determined  lover.  This  thought  occurs  to 
Margery,  when,  happening  to  glance  back  through  the 
thickening  foliage,  she  sees  Mr.  Bellew  afar  off,  plainly  in 
hot  pursuit  of  her.  It  may  be  that  she  is  not  altogether 
displeased  with  this  discovery,  because  though  she  shrugs 
her  shoulders  with  a  disdain  that  terrifies  a  simple  robin 
chirping  on  a  bush  near  by,  she  still  smiles,  as  if  involun- 
tarily, and  a  little  gratified  expression,  full  of  vanity  satis- 
fied, curves  her  red  lips. 

She  takes  no  outward  heed,  however,  of  the  on-comer, 
but  pursues  her  way  as  though  his  near  approach  is  a 
thing  unknown  to  her.  There  are,  indeed  (if  the  truth  be 
told),  a  good  many  little  ways  about  Miss  Daryl  that  might 
seem  to  the  uninitiated,  genuine  and  guileless  in  the  ex- 
treme, but  that  in  reality  are  disgracefully  false,  and  meant 
only  for  the  discomfiture  (and  sometimes  for  the  total 
annihilation)  of  those  whose  greatest  fault  lies  in  the  fact 
of  their  loving  her  too  well  !  It  must  be  admitted  that 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  113 

her  admirers  lead  but  a  sorry  life  of  it.  She  can  take  them 
up  so  easily,  and,  alas  !  let  them  down  so  easily  again  when 
they  grow  tiresome,  that  their  short  spells  of  joy  are  as  a 
rule  but  matters  for  commiseration.  To  her  it  is  possible 
to  be  sweet,  petulant,  coy,  cruel,  almost  in  a  breath.  In- 
deed, to  follow  out  her  manoeuvres,  even  for  a  day,  would 
be  to  some  people  a  useful  study. 

Now,  having  arrived  at  a  spot  that  appears  to  her  to  be 
good  for  the  inevitable  interview  with  Bellew,  she  takes 
up  a  position  so  full  of  melancholy,  that  the  young  man, 
drawing  every  moment  nearer,  is  almost  crushed  by  it. 
She  is  leaning  in  a  mournful  attitude  against  a  huge 
fir-tree,  with  her  shapely  head  thrown  well  back  against 
the  bark  of  it,  and  her  gaze  uplifted  in  pensive  thought  to 
the  azure  heavens  above.  There  is  a  sense  of  injury  about 
her  lips,  and  her  eyes  are  still  angry.  Mr.  Bellew's  heart 
dies  within  him.  Be  she  ever  so  guilty  it  is  terrible  to 
him  that  she  should  look  like  this  ! 

A  crackling  of  the  dry  leaves  beneath  his  feet  gives  her 
the  chance  of  being  aware  of  his  presence.  Slowly,  very 
slowly,  she  turns  upon  him  the  lovely,  wrathful  eyes,  and 
fixes  him  with  a  reproachful  stare. 

"Is  no  place  safe  from  you  ?"  she  demands,  in  an  icy 
tone.  "  Am  I  never  to  be  alone  ?  I  wonder  after  all  the 
cruelty  you  have  shown  me,  you  have  the — the  hardihood" 
— with  a  swiftly  malicious  glance  at  him  from  under  her 
long  lashes — "to  approach  me." 

"I  wish  I  had  not  said  that,"  says  the  young  man, 
humbly.  "  It  was  an  odious  word.  How  could  I  have 
used  it  when  speaking  to  you.  But —  He  looks  at 

her. 

"But  what?"  imperiously. 

"  Margery  !  think  how  I  saw  you  first  to-day." 

"  How  you  saw  me  ?  In  this  old  gown  !  To  which,  if 
you  are  not  accustomed,  you  ought  to  be." 

"  It  is  a  lovely  gown,  and  you  look  lovely  in  it,"  says 
Curzon  gloomily.  "  But  it  has  nothing  to  do  with  it. 
When  I  came  in  through  the  window  you  were  sitting  on 

that  fellow's '  Here  he  stops  short  as  if  choking  for 

a  moment  or  two,  and  then  bursts  out  again  — "  knee  !  "  he 
cries  vehemently,  as  though  the  hateful  word  has  been 
blown  out  of  him. 

"So  that  is  it?"  says  Miss  Daryl,  regarding  him  con- 
temptuously. "  All  the  vile  temper  you  displayed  this 
morning  arose  out  of  the  fact  that  I  sat  on  Tommy  Paulyn's 


H4  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

knee  !  "  A  little  irrepressible  laugh  breaks  from  her,  but 
she  stifles  it  sternly.  No  !  she  will  not  give  way  to  frivolity 
on  this  occasion.  His  manner  is  altogether  too  abomin- 
able !  "  You  might  as  well  find  fault  with  me  for  sitting 
on  Billy's  or  Peter's  knee,"  she  goes  on  scornfully.  "  It 
would  be  quite  the  same  thing,  I  assure  you,  except  that  I 
should  prefer  Billy,  he  wouldn't  jig  one  so.  So  that's  all 
the  excuse  you  can  give  for  your  base  conduct  ?  Have 
you  taken  leave  of  your  senses  ?" 

"No,"  says  Mr.  Bellew,  his  eyes  on  the  ground  ;  "my 
senses  are  with  me  now,  as  then.  They  were  all  with  me 
when  I  saw  you  kiss  him  !  " 

"  Is  there  anything  strange  in  that  ?  I  have  kissed  him 
since  I  was  so  high,"  pointing  to  about  an  inch  or  so  from 
the  ground.  "You  forget  he  is  an  old,  old  friend." 

"  So  am  I,  yet  you  have  never— 

"  I  should  think  not,  indeed.  You  will  be  good  enough 
to  remember  that  he  is  my  cousin." 

"  One  can  marry  a  cousin  !  "  puts  in  Mr.  Bellew,  irrele- 
vantly, but  with  the  deepest  anguish.  It  melts  her  for  the 
moment. 

"Well,"  she  says,  impatiently  ;  "  I'm  not  going  to  marry 
Tommy,  if  that  is  what  you  mean." 

"  If,"  looking  up  eagerly,  "  I  could  be  sure  of  that !  "  A 
little  glow  of  hope  comes  into  his  face. 

"  Or  anyone  else,  for  that  matter  !  " 

The  glow  fades,  and  he  grows  pale  again — but  a  touch 
of  determination  comes  into  his  handsome  eyes. 

"  Look  here  !  "  he  says,  gazing  straight  at  her.  "  If  you 
are  not  going  to  marry  him — are  you  going  to  marry  me  ? 
I  want  to  get  an  answer  to  that  question  now." 

"  It  is  a  pity,  Curzon,"  remarks  Miss  Daryl,  with  a  slight 
frown,  "  that  you  will  permit  yourself  such  brusqueness 
of  demeanor.  It  is  very  distressing  !  Your  manner  is 
positively  farouche  at  times  ;  it  quite  takes  one's  breath 
away." 

"Answer  me,"  says  Curzon,  obstinately. 

"Your  asking  me  now  suggests  to  me  the  possibility 
that  you  are  very  desirous  of  getting  'no'  for  an  answer," 
replies  Miss  Daryl,  with  a  stern  glance.  "After  your 
dreadful  behavior  of  this  morning,  I  wonder  you  have  the 
1  hardi '  " 

"Is  that  wretched  word  to  be  remembered  forever?" 
interrupts  he,  desperately.  "  Good  heavens !  how  I 
wish  it  had  never  been  coined.  Think  how  seldom  I  of- 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  115 

fend  you,  and  don't  follow  up  this  one  sin  to  its  death. 
To  my  death,  I  verily  believe  it  will  be,"  winds  he  up,  with 
a  groan. 

"  Seldom  ?  "  repeats  she.  "  How  little  you  understand 
yourself.  In  my  opinion  you  are  the  most  offending  man 
I  know." 

"  You  are  talking  nonsense  !  "  says  Bellew,  indignantly. 
"  I  am  your  slave,  as  all  the  world  knows.  It  ought  " — 
bitterly — "  it  can  see  daily  for  itself  how  abject  is  my  sub- 
mission." 

"  I  don't  want  a  slave  !  "  declares  she,  with  an  angry 
glance  suggestive  of  tears.  "It  is  very  rude  of  you  to 
suppose  so.  Am  I  a  South  American  planter  ?  And  to 
talk  of  slaves  !  If  you  called  yourself  Mrs.  Amyot's  sJiadow 
— you  would  be  nearer  the  mark  !  " 

"Stuff  !  "  says  Mr.  Bellew,  more  forcibly  than  elegantly. 
"  You  don't  believe  a  word  of  that.  And  if  I  \vere  in  love 
with  her,  it  would  only  serve  you  right.  We  might  be 
quits  then."* 

"Why  ?  /haven't  fallen  in  love  with  anyone  in  a  hope- 
lessly idiotic  manner,  have  I?  And  as  for  'serving  me 
right'  (whatever  that  remarkable  speech  may  mean),  why, 
if  you  think  it  would  distress  me,  your  falling  in  love  with 
anyone,  you  are  immensely  mistaken,  and  I  would  advise 
you  to  dispel  from  your  mind  at  once  all  such  illusions." 

This  speech  seems  to  Bellew  to  herald  the  end  of  all 
things. 

"  You  are  cruel  beyond  imagination,"  he  says,  slowly. 
"  I  hate  a  heartless  woman." 

"  So  do  I.  For  once  we  are  agreed.  That  is  why  I  take 
care  never  to  part  with  mine." 

"  One  must  possess  a  thing,  to  be  in  a  position  to  part 
with  it." 

"  True,  oh  king  !  " 

"  Have  you  a  heart  at  all  ? " 

"  Have  you  ?" 

"Who  should  answer  that  question  but  you — you,  who 
possess  it  ?  " 

"  Poof  !  "  says  she,  contemptuously,  "  you  are  but  a  poor 
reasoner  ;  a  moment  ago  you  doubted  my  having  such 
an  unsatisfactory  article,  and  now  you  accuse  me  of  hav- 
ing misappropriated  yours.  How  is  one  to  grasp  your 
meaning  ? " 

"We  are  talking  nonsense,"  declares  the  young  man, 
angrily.  "We  shall  be  quarrelling  soon."  There  is  no 


ii6  LADY  BRAA7KSMERE. 

irony  intended  in  this  remark,  though  it  might  reasonably 
be  supposed  by  an  impartial  listener  to  be  full  of  it. 

"  I  never  quarrel,"  declares  she  superbly,  uptilting  her 
charming  nose,  "except  with  the  boys.  They  like  it,  so 
I  do  it  with  them  out  of  sheer  good  nature.  But  other- 
wise  "  She  shrugs  her  shoulders. 

"  Perhaps  you  think  I  like  it,  too  ?  " 

"  I  have  told  you  already  that  I  should  not  dream  of 
quarrelling  with  you  ;  and  as  for  thinking  about  you  "- 
disdainfully — "I  never  do  that." 

"  You  are  a  shameless  coquette  ! "  exclaims  Mr.  Bellew, 
driven  to  desperation  and  bad  language  by  this  cruel 
assertion. 

Silence !  A  terrible  silence !  No  woman,  if  born  a 
coquette,  likes  to  be  called  so.  Most  women  who  couldn't 
be  coquettish  to  save  their  lives,  are  delighted  if  you  will 
call  them  so.  Miss  Daryl  belonging  to  the  first  class  is 
now  hopelessly  offended.  She  turns  deliberately  away 
from  Curzon,  and,  clasping  her  hands  behind  her  back, 
commences  an  exhaustive  survey  of  the  landscape. 

It  is  a  rich  picture  that  spreads  itself  before  her.  The 
Manor  woods,  though  hardly  extensive,  are  in  themselves 
lovely,  and  beyond,  adjoining  them  to  the  east,  are  the 
forests  of  Branksmere — the  glowing  heights  and  hollows 
now  rich  with  bursting  verdure.  Down,  far  away  beneath 
her,  is  the  little  leafy  dell  where  Muriel  had  lingered  on 
that  first  night  of  her  return  home,  to  let  wild  thoughts 
of  a  lost  past  grow  warm  within  her  breast.  Dangerous 
thoughts,  treacherous,  vain,  that  would  have  been  better 
buried  out  of  sight,  and  killed  for  want  of  feeding. 

To  Margery,  this  pretty,  innocent-looking  spot  seems 
full  of  sadness.  Reticent  as  -Muriel  by  nature  was,  and  is, 
still  the  younger  sister  had  known  much  of  her  love-affair 
with  Captain  Staines — had  known  among  other  things 
that  this  sheltered  hollow  was  the  trysting  place  of  the 
lovers — a  place  to  be  avoided  by  her — Margery — all  last 
autumn,  as  being  sacred  to  them  alone. 

She  almost  forgets  Curzon  now,  as  her  eyes  dwell  upon 
it,  and  unconsciously  she  sighs  audibly.  This  resigned 
expression  of  a  hidden  grief  is  misconstrued  by  her  com- 
panion, and  compels  him  to  speech. 

"  I  think  I  am  the  most  unfortunate  man  on  earth,"  he 
begins,  with  amazing  calmness,  considering  the  nature  of 
his  statement.  Doubtless  it  is  the  calmness  that  savors  of 
despair.  "  I  have  offended  you  twice  to-day."  Both  these 


LADY  BRAXKSMERE.  117 

remarks  being  positive  assertions,  delivered  in  a  tone  thav 
admits  of  no  argument,  Miss  Daryl  very  wisely  declines  to 
combat  them. 

Her  continued  silence  is  more  than  Mr.  Bellew  has 
strength  to  endure. 

"Meg!"  he  says,  in  a  voice  replete  with  misery  and 
contrition.  His  face  so  exactly  corresponds  with  his  voice 
that  Margery  relents  in  so  far  that  she  permits  herself  to 
be  instantly  down  upon  him. 

"  Now,  once  for  all ! "  she  declares,  "  I  won't  be  called 
by  that  name  again.  Meg!  It  is  monstrous  !  It  reminds 
me  of  nothing  on  earth  save  a  goat !  and  that  hateful 
nursery  rhyme  the  boys  used  to  drum  into  my  ears  long 
ago— 

'  Meg-a-geg-geg, 
Let  go  my  leg.' 

Now,  remember !  for  the  future  I  forbid  you  so  to  address 
me." 

"  Margery,  then,"  meekly. 

"  Certainly  not. 

'  See-saw,  Margery-daw.' 

That  is,  if  possible,  worse.  Do  you  think  I  am  without 
feeling,  that  you  so  seek  to  annoy  me  ?  I  wish  I  had  had 
the  transporting  of  my  god-parents." 

"  I  will  call  you  by  any  name  you  choose,"  declares  lie, 
submissively. 

"Margaret,  then.  There  is  something  respectable  about 
that.  No  flippancy — no  vulgar  rhymes  are  connected 
with  it." 

"  I  am  glad  to  know  at  last,  what  pleases  you  Margaret," 
returns  he,  evenly,  his  gaze  rivetted  upon  the  turf  at  his 
feet.  If  he  dared  he  would  have  liked  to  smile,  but  such 
a  luxury,  he  feels,  is  at  this  moment  forbidden  him.  He 
therefore  contents  himself  with  staring  rigidly  at  a  tuft 
of  grass  that  in  reality  possesses  for  him  no  sort  of  inter- 
est at  all,  and  would  have  been  called  by  him  a  shabby  bit 
of  verdure  had  he  given  it  a  thought. 

"You  are  longing  to  say  something,"  says  Miss  Daryl 
at  last,  who  has  been  regarding  him  with  profound  dis- 
pleasure for  at  least  two  minutes.  "Why  don't  you  do 
it?" 

"  You  are  right.     I  want  to  tell  you  how  glad  I  am  that 


n8  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

you  have  at  last  made  up  your  mind  to  go  to  the  County 
Ball." 

"Willie  made  it  up  for  me  you  mean.  Don't  mix  mat- 
ters." 

"And  to-morrow  you  are  going  to  Sir  Mutius  Mumm's 
afternoon  ?" 

"  I  suppose  so.  All  the  world  is  to  be  there,  and  one 
should  at  least  patronize  one's  uncle." 

Bellew  is  quite  aware  that  she  has  not  as  yet  forgiven 
him,  by  the  little  petulant  fashion  in  which  she  keeps  her 
head  turned  away  and  directed  to  that  grassy  rendezvous, 
that  once  had  been  so  dear  to  Muriel.  His  eyes  follow 
hers,  and  grow  a  little  wider  as  they  rest  on  a  solitary 
figure — a  woman's  figure  that  slowly  and  wearily  enters 
it,  and  sinks  in  a  dejected  attitude  upon  a  mossy  throne 
that  decorates  its  nearest  side.  It  is  not  long  a  solitary 
figure  !  Even  as  they  both  gaze  spellbound  at  it,  a  man 
steps  lightly  from  the  brushwood  outside  and  advances  to- 
ward it.  There  is  a  suggestion  of  surprise  in  the  way  the 
first  tall,  graceful  form  rises  to  receive  this  last  comer, 
and  then  Bellew,  as  if  aware  that  Margery  has  grown 
deadly  pale  (though  her  back  is  turned  to  him)  and  that 
she  would  gladly  believe  herself  sole  witness  of  this  vague 
scene  beneath  her,  turns  abruptly  away,  and  concentrates 
his  gaze  on  the  Branksmere  turrets  that  are  rising  gray 
and  ived  through  the  swelling  trees. 

In  a  very  little  while,  in  a  moment  as  it  were,  he  feels 
the  light  touch  of  her  hand  upon  his  arm.  Though  light 
still,  it  is  heavier  than  usual,  and,  being  the  true  lover  that 
he  is,  he  feels  a  sense  of  pain  thrill  through  him,  that  runs 
from  her  to  him.  She  is  very  white,  and  her  eyes  have  a 
strange  gleam  in  them.  She  has  evidently  altogether  for- 
gotten that  there  was  any  disagreement  between  them. 

"  Take  me  home,  Curzon,"  she  says,  faintly.  "  I  am 
tired  ;  deadly  tired." 


CHAPTER  XVIII. 

Some  men  are  of  a  very  cheerful  disposition,  and  God  forbid  that  all 
such  should  be  condemned  for  lightness. 

Last  night  was  full  of  tears,  but  now  the  sad  reign  of 
weeping  is  at  an  end,  and  the  passionate  storm  that  raged 
in  the  dark,  small  hours  has  left  no  trace  on  the  smiling 


LADY  PRANKSMERE.  119 

earth,  save  the  sweet  shedding  of  white  blossoms  on  the 
garden  paths.  Great  Pluvius  has  sunk  to  rest,  and  Dies- 
pater,  Father  of  Day,  has  arisen  in  all  his  might,  clad  about 
with  glorious  sunbeams,  and  glad  with  the  breath  of  many 
flowers. 

The  tennis  courts  without  are  thronged  with  guests  ; 
the  halls,  the  corridors,  the  vestibules  are  all  full  of  them  ; 
and  Miss  Mumm,  standing  stiff  and  starch  in  her  drawing- 
room  to  receive  the  late  arrivals,  with  her  small  curls 
hanging  crisply  on  either  side  of  her  pursed-up  mouth, 
is  full  of  importance  and,  in  a  degree,  more  unapproach- 
able than  usual. 

The  room  that  acknowledges  her  presence  is  in  every 
way  worthy  of  her,  with  its  square  stiff  ottomans,  its  gilt 
chairs  covered  with  priceless  tapestry,  its  heavily-moulded 
cornices,  and  the  general  air  of  unbending  propriety  that 
characterizes  it.  It  is  a  last  century  room,  not  without  its 
charm  if  viewed  in  a  certain  light — a  room  in  which  state- 
ly minuets  and  graceful  gavottes  might  have  been  treaded 
in  ancient  days  by  dead  and  gone  folk  who  thought  more 
of  snuff  than  morality,  and  who  saw  greater  glory  in  the 
successful  achievement  of  an  intrigue  than  in  the  con- 
quering of  a  kingdom  ;  people  who  simpered  and  lisped 
in  flowered  sacks  and  powdered  wigs,  in  lace  ruffles  and 
high-heeled  shoes,  and  got  through  life  with  the  help  of 
an  epigram  or  two,  and  a  perpetual  shower  of  wearisome 
and  carefully  prepared  but  strictly  impromptu  (?)  bon  mots. 

Miss  Mumm  is  holding  forth  in  her  usual  dictatorial 
style  to  old  Lady  Primrose  about  Muriel,  who,  it  appears, 
after  all,  has  disappointed  her  expectations  in  many  ways. 
Old  Lady  Primrose  is  feebly  entering  a  protest  here  and 
there,  and  is  looking  a  little  distressed,  which  is  only  nat- 
ural, the  person  attacked  being  her  hostess. 

"She  may  be  good  !  "  Miss  Mumm  is  saying  in  between 
her  greetings  to  the  wife  of  the  local  practitioner  and  the 
Hon.  Mrs.  Hornblower,  which  differ  widely  in  texture. 
"She  may  be  ;  I'm  her  aunt  and  should  know.  And  she 
may  be  charming,  too,  as  you  say,"  with  heavy  and  dam- 
ning emphasis  upon  the  "may."  "But  I  fear  she  is  care- 
less. I  have  noticed  many  little  defects  in  her  ;  many 
leanings  toward  the  frivolous  side  of  life  ;  much  desire 
for  riotous  living.  Yes,  she  is  careless.  I  fear  she  won't 
do."  Here  Lady  Primrose,  who  is  deafer  than  ever  to- 
day, grows  very  mixed,  and  begins  to  think  she  has  gone 
a  good  deal  wrong  in  her  understanding  of  Miss  Mumm's 


120  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

discourse,  and  that  she  is  alluding  not  to  her  niece,  Lady 
Branksmere,  but  to  some  incompetent  upper  housemaid. 

"You  are  alluding  to ?"  she  asks,  uncertainly,  an 

anxious  frown  upon  her  furrowed  brow. 

"Why,  to  Muriel — Lady  Branksmere.  Can't  you  follow 
me  ?"  shouts  Miss  Mumm,  as  loud  as  decency  will  permit. 

"Of  course,  of  course.  I  can  hear  you.  I  beg  you  will 
not  distress  yourself  like  that.  One  would  think  I  was 
deaf,"  says  the  old  lady,  irritably. 

"  She  has  got  no  stamina,"  goes  on  Miss  Mumm. 
"  She's  all  for  glow  and  glitter  ;  solid  worth  is  of  no  ac- 
count in  her  eyes.  For  example,  look  at  the  improve- 
ments she  is  organizing  up  at  the  Castle.  She  has  thrown 
up  a  few  earthworks  and  calls  'em  terraces.  Terraces, 
forsooth  !  and  to  manage  that  she  takes  away  the  walk  be- 
neath the  arbutus  trees  that  always  was  there — even  in  the 
days  of  the  old  man's  grandfather,  I'm  told." 

"  So  I've  heard  !  So  I've  heard  !  Threw  up  everything, 
an'  went  off  with  her  in  a  post-chaise,"  mumbles  Lady 
Primrose,  who  is  now  dreadfully  at  sea  again.  Fortu- 
nately she  is  not  "  understanded  of  "  Miss  Mumm,  who  pur- 
sues her  way  unchecked  by  doubts. 

"The  avenue  in  itself  would  tell  a  tale.  I  was  driving 
up  there  yesterday,  and  saw  weeds— positively  weeds- 
growing  at  the  sides  of  it.  I  stopped  the  carriage,  got 
out,  and  counted  twenty  !  With  me,  seeing  is  believing, 
I  take  nothing  on  hearsay,  but  I  counted  those  weeds  with 
my  own  eyes.  Now,  weeds  are  as  pushing  as  parvenus, 
and,  like  them,  should  be  eradicated." 

"Quite  right,  quite  right.  Have  no  sympathy  with 
Radicals  myself  ;  can't  endure  'em,"  quavers  the  older 
woman,  shaking  her  head  in  a  palsied  fashion. 

"  Why  should  weeds  be  found  upon  her  avenue  at  all  ?  " 
continues  Miss  Mumm,  who  is  now  mounted  on  her 
hobby,  and  rides  away  again  without  hearing  the  ramblings 
of  Lady  Primrose.  "Of  course,  if  one's  servants  are  not 
looked  after,  what  can  you  expect.  If  I  had  forty — as  I 
believe  that  silly  young  woman  really  has — I  should  keep 
my  eye  on  everyone  of  them.  They  will  do  nothing, 
I  have  learned  from  sad  experience,  unless  the  mistress  is 
after  their  tails  morning,  noon,  and  night.  Now,  weeds, 
they  will  take  no  trouble  about.  Off  they  whisk  the 
heads,  leaving  the  roots  behind  them,  whereas  if  one  hopes 
to  keep  their  place  decent,  they  must  be  got  out  of  the 
ground  root  and  branch." 


LADY  BRANICSMRRR.  121 

"Ay,  ay.  Root  'em  out.  Root  'em  out!"  gabbles  the 
old  lady  with  senile  enthusiasm.  "  Lord  Foozil  thinks 
withjtw/.  They  shouldn't  be  allowed  to  live,"  with  a  wild 
cackle.  "That's  what  he  says  ;"  cuck — cuck. 

"Eh?"  says  Miss  Mumm,  staring  at  her  with  sudden 
suspicion. 

"  They  shouldn't  have  a  vote  if  he  had  his  way.  It's 
monstrous  how  they're  spreading.  Country's  going  to 
perdition.  That's  what  he  says.  Clever  fellow,  Foozil  ? 
Eh  ?  eh  ?  " 

"  Pshaw  !"  exclaims  Miss  Mumm,  indignantly,  turning 
on  her  heel  and  leaving  the  old  lady  still  cackling  and 
mumbling  contentedly  over  her  Radicals. 

Outside,  the  gardens — being  in  unison  witli  the  furni- 
ture within- — are  simply  exquisite.  Give  me  an  old  world 
garden,  full  of  sweets  and  careless  grace,  to  all  the  stiff 
ribbon  borders  and  stereotyped  modern  beds  in  the  world. 
Here  the  tall,  trimly-clipped  yew  hedge  conceals  a  pleas- 
aunce  made  gay  with  flowers  of  a  century  ago,  and  the 
gaudy  hues  of  the  strutting  peacocks  who  walk  in  stately 
fashion  to  each  new-comer  to  demand  the  customary  toll 
of  bread  or  biscuit.  The  small  cries  of  countless  robins 
fill  the  air,  little,  gentle  denizens  that  seem  to  have  adopted 
this  calm  retreat  as  their  own  special  domain,  where  they 
may  hop  about  in  undisturbed  delight  on  the  marble  basins 
of  the  fountains,  and  twitter  frivolously  to  their  hearts' 
content  from  the  shoulders  of  a  dismantled  Venus  or 
Apollo. 

"Fair  is  the  season  with  new  leaves, 
Bright  blooms,  green  grass, 
And  cries  of  plough-lime." 

The  pleasaunce  is  crowded  with  gay  groups  dotted  here 
and  there.  Through  the  open  windows  beyond  the  wall 
of  rhododendrons  come  snatches  of  Mozart  and  Dussek. 
From  farther  still  the  laughter  of  the  tennis  players,  and 
the  triumphant  cry  that  tells  of  a  game  won.  Mrs.  Amyot, 
in  a  gown  of  sap-green,  is  lounging  leisurely  on  a  low 
garden  chair,  and  is  holding  her  court  gayly.  A  little  far- 
ther on,  Lady  Branksmere,  in  a  marvellous  costume  of 
Venetian  red,  looks  like  a  spot  of  blood  in  the  assembly, 
while  Angelica,  leaning  on  the  back  of  her  chair,  in  a  little 
white  nun-like  frock,  and  with  a  wrapt  expression  on  her 
face,  makes  a  charming  contrast. 

"  Who  is  the  old  man  over  there  ?  "  asks  Lord  Primrose, 
presently,  who  is  perhaps  not  so  well  acquainted  with  his 


122  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

host  as  might  be  termed  advisable.  Margery,  who  over- 
hears him,  laughs. 

"  Hush  !  Mutius  Mumm  is  the  \vord  for  him,"  she 
whispers,  mischievously. 

"  What  a  name  !  "  says  Primrose.  "  So  that  is  really  your 
uncle  ?  You  do  him  credit,  let  me  tell  you,  and  I  should 
think  he  wants  all  he  can  get.  What's  the  matter  with  his 
head  ?  He  doesn't  belong  to  any  particular  order,  does 
he  ? " 

At  this,  Margery,  Angelica — and  Dick,  who  is  lying 
about  somewhere  near,  give  way  to  appreciative  laughter. 

"That  bald  spot  was  a  thing  full  of  interest  to  us  for 
years,"  says  Margery,  gayly.  "  We  used  to  make  baby  bets 
about,  it.  And  every  year  it  grew  carefully  bigger  and 
bigger!  Such  an  old  head  as  he  has!  First  we  used  to 
compare  his  patch  to  a  threepenny  bit,  then  as  it  increased 
with  our  years  and  his,  a  fourpenny.  Then  it  became  a 
sixpence,  then  a  shilling,  then  a  llorin,  and  then  all  at 
once,  as  it  were,  it  changed  into  a  five-shilling  piece  ! 
When  it  came  to  that  point  it  staggered  us  a  good  deal  I 
can  tell  you.  but  Tommy" — indicating  Mr.  Paulyn,  by  a 
wave  of  her  fan — "came  to  the  rescue.  He  surmounted 
the  difficulty.  A  brilliant  thought  occurred  to  him.  The 
first— 

"Of  a  long  series,"  interrupts  Mr.  Paulyn,  modestly,  yet 
with  a  reproachful  glance  at  her.  What  had  she  been  go- 
ing to  say?  "I  employed  but  one  letter  to  effect  the 
desired  comparison.  It  instantly  made  Sir  Mutius'  pate  a 
plate." 

"A  cheese  plate,"  supplements  Margery.  "It  stayed  at 
that  for  some  time,  but  now  it  is  a  soup  plate.  We  expect 
no  more  from  it.  We  feel  it  has  done  its  duty." 

"Why  don't  he  do  something  for  it?"  demands  Prim- 
rose, casting  an  indignant  eye  through  his  glass  at  the  dis- 
tant Sir  Mutius.  "  It's  very  abominable  his  going  about 
like  that  in  his  skin." 

"  I  wish  you  wouldn't  talk  so  unguardedly,  my  dear  fel- 
low," says  Halkett,  gravely,  "  when  you  know  there  are 
ladies  present.  Jt — it's  not  decent!  " 

"  Of  Sir  Mutius  ?  No,  that's  what  I'm  preaching,"  re- 
turns Primrose,  stolidly. 

"What  an  absurd  name  it  is,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  laugh- 
ing, "  Mutius  Mumm.  Oh  !  it  is  too  ridiculous  !" 

"  He  and  Aunt  Selina,  as  he  calls  her,  are  about  the 
most  absurd  pair  in  the  world." 


LADY  BPAJfjeSMERE.  123 

"  As  for  her,  she  is  delicious,"  protests  Mrs.  Amyot.  "  She 
is  a  thing  apart — voice,  ringlets,  and  all.  It  is  a  pity  to 
lose  a  bit  of  her." 

"You  had  better  make  the  most  of  her  to-day,  then," 
says  Margery,  "  because  she  is  off  to  Shorebank  next  week 
early.  It  is  her  one  idea  of  travelling,  and  she  does  it  as- 
siduously every  year.  In  reality  Shorebank  is  about  fifty 
miles  from  this,  but  if  it  were  at  the  Antipodes  she  could 
not  make  a  greater  fuss  than  she  does  about  going  there." 

"One  can  understand  that.  I  told  you  she  was  delici- 
ous," murmurs  Mrs.  Amyot. 

Mrs.  Vyner,  crossing  the  sward  indolently,  comes  up  to 
her. 

"  I  have  been  playing  tennis,"  she  says,  mournfully,  with 
all  the  air  of  one  who  has  been  sacrificing  herself  for  her 
country's  good. 

"  Impossible  !  Why  you  look  as  cool  as  a  snowdrop," 
puts  in  Captain  Staines,  looking  up  at  her  from  his  loung- 
ing position  on  the  grass. 

"  Do  I  ?"  Her  tone  is  of  that  order  of  indifference  that 
might  be  termed  insolent. 

"A  charming  compliment,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  smiling 
at  Staines.  Her  smile  is  soft  and  kindly,  she  being  one  of 
those  women  who  very,  very  seldom  frown  on  any  man. 
"  But  as  to  your  playing" — turning  to  Mrs.  Vyner,  who 
has  sunk  as  if  exhausted  on  the  seat  near  her — "who  did 
you  get  to  do  it  for  you  ?" 

"  Freddy  Trant,  of  course.  You  know  I  never  play  Avith 
anyone  else.  He  does  all  the  serving  and  takes  every 
ball." 

"  Useful  boy  !     And  what  did  you  do  ?  " 

"  I  told  him  how  good  it  was  of  him,"  lisps  Mrs.  Vyner, 
calmly.  "So  it  was,  I  think." 

"  I  wonder  how  you  managed  the  standing,"  says  Hal- 
kett.  "  Did  you  lean  on  Captain  Trant,  or  did  you  do  it 
alone  ?" 

"  Alone  I  did  it,"  returns  Mrs.  Vyner,  with  a  sigh.  "  It 
tired  me  horribly,  but  no  one  should  live  entirely  to  them- 
selves. Mr.  Goldie  told  us  that  last  Sunday.  I've  been 
living  to  Freddy  and  it  has  brought  me  to  death's  door." 

"  I  dare  say  you  will  rally  here,"  says  Lord  Primrose  ; 
"the  air  is  very  mild." 

"  Was  there  ever  so  charming  a  bit  of  garden  ?  "  exclaims 
Mrs.  Amyot,  with  unaffected  enthusiasni.  "  It  makes  one 
feel  so  far  away  from  everything.  I  should  like  to  steal  it." 


124  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  As  it  stands — or  without  its  present  occupants  ?  "  asks 
Halkett,  in  a  low  tone. 

"Without." 

"  And  not  one  single  exception  ?" 

"  One  only  !  "  with  a  tender  smile. 

"Ah  !  And  that?" 

"  The  Dachshund  yonder." 

"  Some  day  you  will  drive  me  to  suicide,"  says  Halkett, 
with  melancholy  foreboding. 

"  Beyond  this  garden  there  is  another  almost  equal  to 
it,"  cries  Margery,  throwing  a  rosebud  into  Mrs.  Amyot's 
lap  to  catch  her  attention.  "  Will  you  come  and  see  it  ? 
A  year  ago  it  was  lovely.  It  must  be  lovely  still." 

"No,  no.  I  am  surfeited  with  happiness  here.  I  shall 
not  tempt  Fate  further.  You  see  a  strange  thing  in  me — 
a  contented  woman  !  Find  another  companion  in  your 
ramble." 

"Try  me,  Miss  Daryl?"  says  Captain  Staines,  springing 
to  his  feet.  In  spite  of  the  gayety  of  his  air,  there  is  some- 
thing anxious  about  it.  Some  fine  instinct  tells  him  that 
Margery  both  dislikes  and  distrusts  him,  and,  for  the  fur- 
therance of  his  plans,  it  seems  to  him  of  special  impor- 
tance that  he  should  combat  her  prejudice. 

"Everyone  can  come,"  returns  Margery,  very  slowly,  re- 
garding him  with  cold,  unfriendly  eyes.  "  It  is  but  a  little 
place,  and  I  do  not  think  it  would  suit  you.  It  is  nothing 
but  a  small  wilderness  of  sweets.  It  would,  I  imagine, 
bore  you." 

"  You  have,  I  fear,  but  an  indifferent  opinion  of  my  ar- 
tistic tastes,"  says  Staines,  with  an  affectation  of  good 
humor,  but  a  rising  color. 

"  I  mz//ydonot  think,"  with  gentle  insistance,  "  that  you 
would  care  for  it.  But,"  looking  round  her,  "  everyone  can 
come." 

"  Everyone  \  When  I  asked  your  permission  to  accom- 
pany you,  I  thought,  perhaps — 

"Yes?"  Her  interruption,  though  quiet,  is  prompt. 
"  If  you  will  follow  Mr.  Bellevv  and  me,  you  shall  see  for 
yourself  all  the  beauties  of  which  I  have  raved. 

She  inclines  her  head  slightly.  It  is  a  dismissal,  and 
Staines  very  wisely  takes  it  as  such.  Her  whole  air  and 
manner  has  raised  within  him  a  sense  of  defiance  of  ail 
rule  and  order,  and,  crossing  to  where  Lady  Branksmere 
is  sitting,  he  takes  up  his  position  behind  her  chair,  and 
murmurs  some  gay  commonplace  in  her  ear.  Muriel 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  125 

smiles  politely.  It  is  at  this  moment,  when  he  is  leaning 
over  her  in  a  rather  empresse  attitude,  and  she  has  turned 
a  little  in  order  to  smile  up  at  him,  that  Lord  Branksmere 
enters  the  yew  garden.  His  eyes,  that  always  in  every  as- 
semblage seek  for  Muriel,  now  pursue  their  customary 
search,  and  at  last  rest  upon  her — and  Staines. 

A  start,  so  imperceptible  as  to  be  only  a  thrill,  runs 
through  him,  and  a  little  ashen  shade  mingles  with  the 
natural  bronze  of  his  complexion.  It  is  at  this  moment 
that  Madame  von  Thirsk  slips  her  hand  through  his  arm. 


CHAPTER    XIX. 

Oh  !  he  has  passions  which  outstrip  the  wind, 
And  tear  her  virtue  up,  as  tempests  root  the  sea. 

O  dreary  life,  we  cry.     O  dreary  life. 

"  WHERE  have  you  been,  my  friend  ? "  she  asks,  smilingly. 
"This  is  the  cosiest  corner  to  be  found  anywhere,  but 
doubtless  you  have  been  endeavoring  to  help  the  old  peo- 
ple with  their  impossibles,  according  to  the  good-nature 
that  always  distinguishes  you.  We  have  all  been  enjoying 
ourselves  here  more  than  it  is  possible  to  conceive  in  this 
prosaic  age." 

"So  it  seems,"  says  Branksmere,  biting  his  lip.  Invol- 
untarily his  glance  again  seeks  his  wife's  seat,  and  an  evil 
fire  lights  within  his  sombre  eyes. 

"Ah  !  I  warned  you  of  that,"  says  Madame,  with  a  sud- 
den little  catch  of  her  breath.  "  But  you  would  have  none 
of  my  counsel."  She  casts  her  beautiful  hands  abroad. 
There  is  a  well-arranged  sorrow,  and  an  unutterable  pity 
in  her  tone.  "  It  is  not  yet  too  late,"  she  whispers  eagerly. 
"  Get  rid  of — hint ;"  by  an  almost  imperceptible  gesture  she 
indicates  Staines,  who  is  still  leaning  over  Muriel.  Per- 
haps she  knows  her  man  when  she  says  this. 

"  I  will  drive  no  one  from  my  doors,"  says  Branksmere, 
doggedly.  "  And — you  misunderstand  me,  as  I  warned 
you  before.  It  seems  to  me  that  you  imagine  I  distrust 
Lady  Branksmere.  Believe  me,  that  is  not  so.  Were  it 
the  case,  I  should  not  seek  to  rescue  her  from  temptation. 
I  should  not  care  to  retain  a  wife  on  such  terms.  I  should 
simply  let  iicr  go."  As  he  says  this,  he  turns  his  dark,  in- 


126  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

scru table  eyes  full  on  her.  "  But  I  do  not  distrust.  And 
once  for  all  I  forbid  you  to  speak  to  me  again  in  such  a 
manner." 

There  is  a  suspicion  of  passion  barely  subdued  in  his 
tone.  Madame  von  Thirsk,  hearing  it,  turns  to  him  aface 
that  has  grown  curiously  white,  but  is  yet  full  of  repressed 
power. 

"You,  too,  misunderstand  me,  Branksmere,"  she  says,  in 
a  low  vibrating  voice.  "  Am  I  to  be  addressed  as  though 
I  were  a  common  acquaintance  after — all?  Dare  I  not 
speak  one  word  of  warning  ?  /,  the  friend  of  ten  long 
years  ?  Am  I  nothing  to  you  now — nmv  that  this  woman 
of  yesterday  has  dragged  you  into  her  silken  coils  that 
are  all  so  falsely  woven  ? "  She  clinches  her  hand.  "  Nay, 
hear  me — hear  me  !  "  she  cries  aloud,  as  with  a  stern  deter- 
mination he  moves  away.  "  If  to  me  ungrateful,  still  for 
your  own  sake  be  wise  !"  She  takes  a  step  toward  him, 
hardly  knowing  herself,  what  a  revelation  is  on  her  tongue 
in  this  impulsive  moment.  But  he  still  persistently  moves 
away,  and  the  moment  is  passed.  Another  comes,  but  its 
fruits  are  off  a  different  tree.  "  Go,  then  !  "  she  whispers, 
in  a  tone  that  is  almost  a  hiss.  "  The  day  will  dawn  when 
you  must  listen." 

She  sinks  back  in  her  seat,  and  by  a  supreme  effort  re- 
covers her  self-control.  Her  blood  seems  on  fire.  Lift- 
ing her  eyes,  she  brings  Staines  to  her  side  by  an  almost 
imperceptible  movement  of  her  fan.  By  the  time  he 
reaches  her,  her  hand  is  quite  steady  again,  and  her  voice 
her  slave  once  more. 

"  You  are  a  little  rash — is  it  not  ?  "  she  says  to  him,  smil- 
ingly, drawing  her  skirt  aside  that  he  may  take  a  seat  upon 
her  garden-chair.  "  Monsieur  can  see  !  Eyes  have  been 
given  him  that  are  of  use,  dull  as  your  insular  eyes  usually 
are.  As  we  have  entered  into  a  little  friendly  alliance,  I 
think  it  my  duty  to  warn  you." 

"You  are  an  admirable  ally."  Looking  at  her,  Staines 
can  see  something  about  her  that  is  not  altogether  calm. 
"Jealous,  is  he  ?  There  is  nothing  strange  in  that,  after 
all.  Jealousy  is  not  dependent  upon  love." 

"He  thinks  of  his — honor!"  returns  she,  the  words 
coming  from  her  in  a  sort  of  snarl.  Her  eyes  are  lowered, 
the  blood  has  forsaken  her  lips.  Staines  shrugs  his  shoul- 
ders. After  all,  if  she  has  serious  cause  for  plaint,  it  is  no 
affair  of  his,  and  will  only  make  her  the  more  useful  in 
the  little  game  he  has  decided  upon  playing.  « 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  127 

"  He  behaved  honorably  enough  to— her,"  he  says,  in  a 
subdued  voice,  gazing  right  and  left  with  a  careless  air, 
that  would  have  deceived  the  most  suspicious  watcher. 
"  I  hear  the  settlements  were  princely."  There  is  some- 
thing distinctly  anxious  about  the  glance  that  accompanies 
this  last  remark. 

"  I  only  know  one  thing  about  them  for  certain,"  replies 
Madame,  in  a  slow  tone.  "  He  has  settled  a  thousand  a 
year  upon  her,  absolutely.  Nothing  could  deprive  her  of 
that.  The  twenty  thousand  was  made  over  on  her,  irre- 
spective of  pin-money  or  anything  else,  before  the  mar- 
riage. It  was  not  her  doing  you  will  mind.  It  was  his." 

"Twenty  thousand.  Absolutely,"  says  Staincs,  medi- 
tatingly.  "  A  generous  arrangement."  A  rather  amused 
smile  curves  his  lips  beneath  his  long,  yellow  mustache. 
"  Because  after  all  one  never  knows  what  may  happen  ! 
You  are  sure  of  this  ? " 

"Quite  sure.  Were  she  to  abuse  his  confidence  to  the 
utmost.  Were  she  to  commit  the  one  unpardonable  sin 

in  married  life — it  would  still  be  hers.  Were  she  to 

What  is  your  plan  ?  "  cries  she,  fiercely,  breaking  off  in  the 
midst  of  her  seemingly  calm  rejoinder,  and  growing  ter- 
ribly agitated.  "  There  is  something  diabolical  in  your  face. 
What  is  your  plan,  your  scheme  ?  Give  voice  to  it !  " 

"What  plan  should  there  be?"  demands  Staines,  airily, 
with  a  sudden  movement  of  his  body  that  throws  up  his 
shoulders  and  flings  out  his  arm  and  expresses  generally 
a  half  amused  renunciation  of  the  idea.  "You  hurt  me 
when  you  say  I  look  diabolical  !  Mildness  is  a  prerogative 
of  mine.  And  would  you  call  ours  a  scheme  ?  There  are 
two  people  whom  we  love.  They  are  unhappy.  We  would 
rescue  them  from  their  bondage — we  would  lift  the  chains 
that  drag  them  down.  Do  you  call  that  a  scheme  ?  If  so, 
it  is  a  pious  one." 

"  It  is  a  damnable  one  ! "  replies  the  Hungarian,  coldly. 
"I  do  not  defraud  myself,  if  you  do." 

"  This  cold  climate  is  killing  your  suavity,  Madame," 
returns  he,  lightly.  There  is  not  an  iota  of  compunction 
in  his  handsome,  smiling  face. 

"  Have  you  no  remorse  ?  "  demands  she.  "  No  mis- 
givings ?  No  terror  of  the  end  ?" 

"No  soul?"  supplements  he,  with  an  open  derision. 
"  That  is  an  efficient  answer  to  all  such  questions."  He 
laughs  aloud,  and  delicately  flips  a  little  passing  speck  of 
air-down  from  his  coat. 


128  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

Madame's  hand  tightens  on  a  fold  of  her  gown,  and  then 
a  laugh  breaks  from  her,  too  ;  low,  but  reckless,  and  out 
of  tune  with  all  gentle  sympathies.  At  this  unpropitious 
moment  she  lifts  her  head,  and  gazes  straight  before  her 
to  where  a  little  picture  is  being  enacted,  as  if  for  her 
special  benefit. 

Branksmere  is  bending  over  Muriel's  chair.  He  has 
evidently  said  something  that  is  unpalatable,  because  on 
the  instant  Lady  Branksmere  rises  and  confronts  him.  As 
their  eyes  meet  Madame  can  see  that  a  very  fury  of  re- 
pressed rage  and  hatred  gleams  from  the  eyes  of  each. 
Her  laughter  grows  bolder  as  she  turns  her  glance  away 
from  them  back  again  to  Staines. 

"You  are  right,"  she  says,  feverishly.  "  The  present 
includes  all  things."  She  throws  back  her  handsome  head, 
and  her  great,  lustrous,  passionate  eyes  grow  dazzling. 
"Your  plan?"  she  asks.  "I  am  prepared  for  it  now. 
Let  me  have  it." 

"  You  accord  me  powers  I  don't  possess,"  returns  Staines, 
with  a  malicious  affectation  of  modesty.  "  I  could  not 
formulate  a  plan  to  save  my  life,  but  1  confess  to  you  that 
I  should  like  to  be  of  service  to  the  woman  I  love.  She 
is  now  unhappy.  It  seems  to  me  her  burden  is  greater 
than  she  can  bear.  Should  it  so  happen  that  she  should 
elect  to  let  it  fail  from  her — to  fly  from  it  with —  Why, 
then — 

''Yes?  Then?"  She  is  leaning  toward  him,  ill-subdued 
excitement  in  her  whole  air. 

"Weil  then By  the  bye,  Madame,"  says  he,  in  his 

usual  pleasant,  airy  tone,  "  permit  me  to  remind  you  that 
there  are  one  or  two  people  in  this  charming  little  nook 
besides  ourselves,  and  that  perhaps  a  degree  less — shall 
we  call  it  interest  ?  Yes  ? — interest  in  this  conversation  on 
your  part  would  be  advisable.  Ah  !  that  is  better.  Well 
' then' — was  that  where  I  stopped  ?" 

"Yes,  yes.     Go  on,"  desires  she,  with  quickened  breath. 

"  Then  it  seems  to  me  that  Lord  Branksmere  might 
readily  sue  for  and  obtain  a  divorce — and  find  himself  once 
more  in  a  position  to  wed — a  woman  in  every  way  more 
suited  to  him." 

His  pause  is  accompanied  by  a  look  that  says,  plainer 
than  words,  "  You  !  "  but  the  word  is  not  said,  nevertheless. 

"  An  admirable  plot,"  replies  Madame,  after  a  moment 
or  two.  She  has  grown  very  pale.  "  But  there  is  such  a 
thing  as  failure." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  129 

"Is  there?  I  don't  believe  it,"  replies  he,  lightly.  "All 
I  want  is  a  little  help  :  your  help.  If  you  want  a  first 
lesson,"  rising  as  he  speaks  to  let  her  understand  the  in- 
terview has  lasted  long  enough  for  safety,  "  learn  this. 
She  has  already  done  you  the  honor  to  be  jealous  of  you." 

He  smiles  until  he  shows  all  his  white  teeth,  makes  her 
a  little  courteous  bow,  and  strolls  away  jauntily  across  the 
clean-shaven  sward.  Branksmere  has  disappeared,  and 
with  an  air  of  suppressed  melancholy,  he  once  again  ap- 
proaches Muriel. 

"  You  look  tired,"  he  says,  presently,  when  the  man  who 
had  been  speaking  to  her  has  moved  away.  His  tone  is 
full  of  solicitude,  and  of  that  nameless  air  of  mingled  rev- 
erence and  reproach  he  reserves  alone  for  her. 

"  My  face  is  for  once,  then,  an  index  to  my  mind.  I  am 
tired,  bored  rather."  She  speaks  petulantly.  The  touch 
of  gloomy  anger"  that  had  despoiled  the  fairness  of  her 
features  when  Branksmere  had  spoken  to  her,  still  lingers. 

"Your  sister  spoke  of  a  little  paradise  that  exists  some- 
where near  this.  Will  you  come  and  look  for  it  ?  Exer- 
cise will  kill  your  ennui,"  suggests  he,  gently. 

For  a  moment  she  hesitates.  Then  rising,  moves  away 
beside  him  in  the  direction  of  a  little  iron  gate  overhung 
with  trailing  ivy  that  leads  to  some  quaint  region  beyond. 
In  silence  they  go,  until  the  murmur  of  the  voices  they  left 
behind  grows  faint  and  indistinct,  and  fades  presently  into 
the  battle  of  the  tiny  rushing  streamlet  that  greets  them 
as  they  turn  a  rocky  corner. 

It  is  a  charming  spot  they  have  reached — silent,  calm, 
idyllic.  The  little  river  tumbling  over  its  pebbles  makes 
music  at  their  feet. 

It  made  such  a  noise  as  it  ran, 
Accordant  with  the  birdes  harmony, 
Me  thought  it  was  the  beste  melody 
That  might  be  heard  of  any  man. 

Muriel,  as  if  wearied,  sinks  upon  a  mossy  couch,  and 
gazes  with  half  unseeming  eyes  upon  the  laughing  water. 
Her  heart  is  full  of  gall ;  an  angry  fire  burns  within  her 
veins.  A  sudden  wild  longing  for  revenge  upon  the  man 
who  she  believes  has  married  her  only  to  dishonor  her, 
is  withering  every  womanly  feeling  in  her  heart. 

"Your  sister  was  right,"  says  Staines,  seating  himself 
beside  her.  "  It  is  a  spot  worthy  of  truest  admiration." 

"  It  is  a  little  uncultivated  bit  of  nature,"  returns  she, 

9 


130  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

drily.  "We  are  so  hedged  about,  and  trimmed  and  twisted 
into  shape  nowadays,  that  we  persuade  ourselves  a  for- 
gotten spot  like  this  is  more  worthy  of  regard  than  it 
really  is.  What  is  it  after  all  ?"  looking  depreciatingly 
around  her.  "A  three-cornered  affair,  decked  out  with  a 
moss-grown  rock,  a  noisy  stream,  and  a  twilight  effect 
caused  by  a  few  giant  firs  in  the  background.  We  are  so 
clever,  we  mortals  of  to-day,  that,  given  a  good  man  or 
two  with  any  eye  to  artistic  joinings,  I  don't  see  why  we 
should  not  manufacture  just  such  another  picturesque 
angle  in  the  course  of  a  few  weeks." 

"  It  fails  to  please  you  ?  "  regretfully. 

"  On  the  contrary,  it  pleases  me  very  much." 

"  It  is  out  of  harmony  with  you,  then  ?" 

"  It  is  I  who  am  out  of  harmony  with  it ;  with  most 
things,"  declares  she,  impatiently. 

Staines  glances  at  her  from  under  his  lowered  eyelids. 
She  is  looking  straight  before  her  as  though  brooding  over 
some  hateful,  if  distant,  thought,  and  seems  lost  to  a  sense 
of  his  presence.  She  has  let  one  of  her  gloves  fall  from 
her — a  long,  slender,  dainty  thing,  sweet  with  the  impres- 
sion of  the  beautiful  hand  it  has  covered,  and  Staines,  lift- 
ing it  from  the  ground,  lays  it  on  his  knee,  and  softly,  ten- 
derly smoothes  out  the  fingers  of  it  one  by  one.  His 
manner  up  to  this,  if  slightly  tinged  with  melancholy,  has 
been  prosaic  and  commonplace  in  the  extreme,  but  this 
action  of  his  is  replete  with  all  a  lover's  tenderness. 

"  I  wish  I  might  do  something  for  you,"  he  says,  at  last. 

"For  me  !  "  His  tone  has  roused  her  from  her  passion- 
ate reverie,  and  turning,  she  sees  him  smoothing  out  the 
glove's  creases  with  a  lingering  worshipful  hand.  The 
sight  seems  to  anger  her.  She  frowns  impetuously. 
"What  is  it  that  you  could  do  for  me  ?"  she  asks,  with  a 
touch  of  hauteur  in  voice  and  eyes. 

"  Many  things,"  replies  he,  evenly,  changing  his  meaning 
deftly.  "  I  could  go  to  the  house  and  get  you  some  Co- 
logne water  ;  or,  if  I  might  be  allowed  to  advise,  I  could 
tell  you  that  a  little  of  that  cool  stream  there,  if  applied  to 
the  forehead,  would  alleviate  a  bad  headache." 

His  answer  is  so  entirely  different  to  what  she  expected, 
that  it  not  only  rouses  but  relieves  her. 

"  There  is  no  remedy  for  a  really  bad  one,"  she  says,  ac- 
cepting his  reading  of  her  mood  with  a  sort  of  inward  grat- 
itude. "  It  seems  to  me  that  mine  will  endure  for  ever." 
Her  laugh  is  a  little  dreary.  "  That  is  what  all  people 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  131 

think  when  they  are  in  pain,  is  it  not  ?  A  mere  morbid 
fancy  that  dies  with  the  suffering." 

"  I  do  not  care  to  think  of  you  as  being  either  morbid, 
or  in  pain,"  replies  Staines,  in  a  low  tone,  without  lifting 
his  eyes  from  the  glove  he  is  still  slowly  caressing.  "  And 
sometimes,  of  late,  I  have  imagined  your  mind  was  troub- 
led." 

"  I  am   not  exempt  from  trouble,  if  you  mean  that." 

"  1  wish  I  could  be  of  any  use  to  you  at  all,"  says  Staines 
in  a  matter-of-fact  tone,  that,  considering  the  situation,  is 
reassuring,  and,  therefore,  trebly  insidious.  "If  ever  I 
can  help  you  in  any  small  way  please  remember  that  we 
are  friends,  at  least." 

She  makes  no  direct  answer  to  this,  but  presently,  with- 
out removing  her  gaze  from  the  distant  hills,  she  speaks  to 
him. 

"Already  you  have  helped  me,"  she  declares,  gently. 
"It  was  you  who  directed  my  footsteps  to  this  place,  and  it 
seems  to  me  to  be  very  good  to  be  here.  I  feel  calm,  rested, 
in  spite  of  all  my  slighting  words  of  a  few  minutes  since." 

Her  tone  has  grown  somewhat  dreamy.  She  is  leaning 
back  against  the  lichened  rock  behind  her,  and  a  transient 
glory  from  the  departing  sun  has  settled  on  her  head — her 
small  shapely  head  with  its  wealth  of  bronze-red  tresses. 
Through  the  leaves  of  the  dense  trees  the  fading  beams  are 
piercing,  lighting  up  the  strange  weird  beauty  of  her  face, 
her  deep  melancholy  eyes  and  the  mournful  curves  of  her 
sad,  haughty  lips.  Gazing  at  her  and  marking  the  loveli- 
ness of  her,  a  curious  thrill  runs  through  Staines — if  Jm 
should  be  the  hand  to  lay  that  small,  proud  head  low  in 
the  dust  of  shame,  what  will  the  dread  future  hold  for  him, 
for  her  ?  How  will  it  be  between  they  two  in  ah  the  long, 
interminable  after  years?  Again  that  strange,  nervous 
foreboding  oppresses  him  ;  that  sense  of  fear  that  still  has 
nothing  in  it  of  honest  compunction  or  growing  remorse. 
It  is  at  an  end  almost  immediately.  He  shakes  it  from  him 
with  a  shrug  of  self-contempt  and  turns  to  her. 

"  You  like  being  here,  then  ?  "  he  asks,  in  a  low  tone  that 
seems  to  fall  in  naturally  with  the  hour  and  the  scene. 

"  It  means  almost  happiness,"  returns  she,  with  a  deep 
sigh.  Her  voice  is  still  dreamy,  absent ;  her  eyes,  half- 
hidden  by  her  white,  heavy  lids,  are  looking  into  a  tender 
past,  or  a  future  impossibly  bright.  Then  all  at  once  her 
mood  changes.  She  comes  back  to  her  present  with  a 
start,  and  turns  a  questioning  gaze  on  Staines. 


132  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Tell  me  about  Madame  von  Thirsk,"  she  says.  "  I  saw 
you  talking  to  her  just  now.  I  confess  I  do  not  understand 
her  myself,  but  you  probably  do.  She  is  a  friend  of 
yours  ?" 

"A  friend?  No,"  returns  Staines,  promptly.  He  looks 
surprised,  even  a  little  shocked.  "  I  know  almost  as  little 
of  her  as  you  do,"  he  goes  on,  slowly.  "  But  I  think  I 

should  distrust — dislike "  He  breaks  off  abruptly. 

"  After  all  I  am  scarcely  in  a  position  to  judge — my  knowl- 
edge of  her — my  opinion  is  based  on  such  slight  grounds 
that— 

"That?"  She  leans  toward  him,  and  Staines  rises 
precipitately  to  his  feet. 

"  Why  will  you  press  the  matter  ?  "  he  asks.  "It  is  all 

mere  conjecture.  I — a  stranger  to  her  and  to .  What 

should  I  know  ?  And  yet  if  I  dared  speak — if  I  dared  give 
voice  to  the  fear  within  me  I  should  say — beware  of  Madame 
von  Thirsk  ! " 

"  That  is  a  strange  word  to  use,"  says  Lady  Branksmere, 
coldly.  "  What  should  I  dread  from  any  mortal  thing  ? 
You  speak  in  enigmas,  and  you  expect  me  to  follow  you  ; 
but  I  cannot." 

"Perhaps  you  will  not  !  "  His  agitation  is  not  alto- 
gether feigned  ;  she  looks  so  lovely,  yet  so  entirely  alone, 
that  his  heart  smites  him  through  very  pity  of  her.  "  There 
are  moments,"  he  goes  on,  hurriedly,  "  when  the  truth  of 
all  this  dawns  upon  me.  When  I  see  you  loveless,  sad, 
forsaken  !  Oh,  forgive  me  !  The  thought  is  sacrilege,  and 

yet ."  He  throws  out  his  hands  to  her  as  though  in  a 

paroxysm  of  passion — as  though  in  momentary  forgetful- 
ness  of  the  gulf  that  now  divides  them.  "  Muriel !  Muriel!  " 
he  whispers,  heart-brokenly. 

Lady  Branksmere  taking  a  step  forward  moves  him 
aside  with  an  imperious  gesture.  Her  face  is  the  color  of 
death  but  her  eyes  are  brave  and  unflinching. 

"  It  is  time  we  returned  to  the  others,"  she  says,  icily. 
"We  have  been  here  too  long  already." 

She  sweeps  past  him,  and  he  follows  her  without  an- 
other word.  As  they  regain  the  crowded  parterre  beyond, 
they  come  upon  a  group  or  two,  and  Lady  Branksmere 
stopping  to  accost  one  of  those  who  help  to  form  them, 
Staines  gets  separated  from  her.  From  that  group  she 
passes  to  another,  oblivious  of  the  fact  that  she  has  one 
bare  white  hand,  and  one  black  one  until  she  finds  herself 
suddenly  face  to  face  with  Branksmere. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  133 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  lost  your  glove,"  he  says,  in  a  low 
voice  that  vibrates  with  a  terrible  wrath. 

Thus  addressed  Lady  Branksmere  glances  down  at  her 
hands,  and  for  the  first  time  becoming  aware  of  her  loss,  a 
slow  rich  crimson  dyes  her  cheeks. 

"  I  have  not  lost  it.  I  dare  say  I  shall  be  able  to  find 
it,"  she  says,  rather  uncertainly. 

"Shall  I  ask  Captain  Staines  to  look  for  it?  He  was 
your  latest  companion.  He  may  know  something  about 
it,"  suggests  Branksmere,  his  gaze  burning  into  hers. 

"  You  are  very  good.  But  I  beg  you  will  not  give  your- 
self so  much  trouble,"  returns  she,  steadily.  "  By  and  by 
I  can  myself  ask  him  if  he  has  seen  it." 

"Do!"  The  word  is  a  command!  It  strikes  upon 
Muriel,  and  sends  her  glance  swiftly  to  his.  Her  large 
eyes  grown  luminous  in  this  fast-gathering  twilight  are 
uplifted,  and  Branksmere  studying  them,  with  a  heart 
overflowing  with  bitterest  anger,  can  see  that  they  are 
filled  with  an  unutterable  contempt. 


CHAPTER  XX. 

"Doubt  is  the  effect  of  fear  or  jealousy, 
Two  passions  which  to  reason  give  the  lie  ; 
For  fear  torments  and  never  doth  assist  ; 
And  jealousy  is  love  lost  in  a  mist, 
Both  hoodwink  truth,  and  go  to  blind-man's-buff." 

OLD  Lady  Primrose,  with  the  prospect  of  the  county 
ball  and  its  attendant  tortures  before  her  for  the  following 
evening — tortures,  however,  she  would  not  have  skipped 
for  worlds — has  retired  to  bed,  worn  out  by  Miss  Mumm's 
hospitality.  Most  of  the  others  have  followed  her  example. 
Mrs.  Amyot,  indeed,  who  seldom  cries  for  quarter,  is  still 
in  the  billiard  room  having  a  last  game,  with  Lady  Anne 
Branksmere,  who  is  always  good-natured,  to  keep  her  in 
countenance.  A  good  many  of  the  men  have  already 
sneaked  off  to  the  smoking  den,  and  are  now  in  bliss, 
otherwise  tobacco  clouds.  Lord  Branksmere,  opening  the 
library  door,  is  startled  to  find  it  not  empty,  as  he  had  sup- 
posed, but  in  occupation  by  his  wife. 

She  is  standing  on  the  hearthrug,  with  one  arm  upon 
the  mantelpiece,  and  a  slender  foot  poised  upon  the  fender 


134  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

bar.  She  is  gazing  into  the  fireplace,  but  is  evidently 
lost  to  all  knowledge  of  the  fact  that  the  fire  has  all  but 
burned  itself  out,  and  that  only  a  few  charred  and  slowly 
dying  embers  still  remain.  Where  are  her  thoughts  ? 
How  far  have  they  wandered  ?  She  looks  sad  and  un- 
certain, and  as  it  seems  to  Branksmere  very  lonely. 
Through  the  room  the  chill  of  a  night  that  creeps  toward 
morning  may  be  felt. 

"The  room  is  cold,"  says  Branksmere,  abruptly.  There 
is  a  touch  of  impatient  pain  in  his  tone.  That  little  sense 
of  loneliness  that  seems  to  hang  upon  her  has  hurt  him 
inexpressibly.  Going  over  to  the  hearthrug,  he  pokes  up 
the  cinders  and  draws  them  together,  and  begins  to  pile 
on  the  still  smoking  ruins  some  wood  and  coals.  Muriel 
sighs  heavily  as  one  might,  who  has  been  rudely  wakened 
from  a  sweet  dream  to  an  unblessed  present. 

"  Is  the  room  cold  ?     I  did  not  feel  it,"  she  says,  absently. 

Branksmere,  laying  his  fingers  lightly  over  hers,  is  made 
aware  that  they  are  cold  as  death. 

"You  are  shivering,"  he  declares,  and,  redoubling  his 
exertions,  soon  drives  the  wood  into  a  flame  that  gives  the 
contagion  to  its  neighbors,  and  sends  a  cheerful  crackling 
blaze  up  the  chimney.  Muriel,  though  still  absent  in 
manner,  seems  conscious  of  the  growing  warmth  and  grate- 
ful to  it ;  she  draws  nearer  and  spreads  out  her  slender 
hand  over  the  sparkling  flames. 

"You  should  remember  the  summer  is  still  hardly  come, 
and  that  the  nights  are  cold,"  says  Branksmere,  with  some 
concern.  He  pauses,  and  then,  after  a  slight  struggle  with 
himself,  goes  on  again  :  "  I  may  as  well  tell  you,"  he  con- 
tinues, with  some  difficulty  and  a  considerable  amount  of 
awkwardness,  "  that  I  regret  the  rudeness  of  my  manner 
toward  you  this  afternoon." 

"Yes!"  says  Muriel,  indifferently,  as  though  only  half 
attending.  "  I  am  very  sorry  you  let  it  worry  you.  I  had 
forgotten  all  about  it." 

It  has  been  to  him  so  sore  a  remembrance  during  all 
these  past  hours  that  he  now  cannot  conquer  the  feeling 
of  offence  her  evident  carelessness  had  occasioned  him. 

"  Of  course  I  should  not  have  taken  it  so  for  granted 
that — that — the  % glove  was — in  his  possession  at  all," 
stammers  Branksmere.  He  is  indeed  very  honestly  sorry 
for  the  part  he  had  played,  and  has  spent  his  time  since  in 
persuading  himself  that  there  was  no  occasion  for  him  to 
play  it.  He  has  found  a  genuine  pleasure  in  censuring 


LADY  BRANKSMRRE.  135 

himself  for  his  hot  haste  in  accusing  her  of  what  it  was 
probable  she  was  innocent.  True  she  had  changed  color 
in  a  strange  nervous  fashion,  but  was  not  his  brusque  ad- 
dress sufficient  to  bring  the  angry  blood  to  the  cheek  of 
any  woman  ?  And  if  it  had  been,  as  he  for  that  mad  hor- 
rible moment  believed,  would  she  have  had  the  effrontery 
to  appear  before  them  all  with  one  naked  hand  to  testify 
— to  call  attention  to  her  folly?  Would  a  woman  court 
scrutiny  on  such  an  occasion  ?  Would  she  parade  her  sorry 
deed  ;  cry  out  upon  the  world  to  look  and  see  ?  Would 
she  not  rather  have  removed  the  other  glove  too,  so  as  to 
kill  observation  ?  And  yet  to  hear  her  say  it  was  not  true  ! 
Only  to  hear  her  say  it.  How  singularly  silent  she  is. 
She  has  made  him  no  answer  to  his  last  remark. 

"You  have  got  it  back  ?"  he  asks,  suddenly,  staring  at 
her. 

"  No.     I  know  as  much  about  it  now  as  I  did  then." 

"But  you  asked  him  about  it?"  His  face  has  flushed, 
and  though  he  despises  himself  for  his  cowardice  he  can- 
not bring  himself  to  mention  Staines'  name. 

"No,"  indifferently.    "I  never  thought  about  it  since." 

This  is  the  strict  truth.  Her  mind  had  been  so  taken  up 
with  present  humiliations,  and  tender,  past  recollections, 
by  wrath  of  to-day's  yielding,  and  mournful  desires  of  her 
lost  yesterday,  that  she  had  fondly  but  vainly  believed  to 
be  vanquished — that  all  remembrance  of  that  luckless  glove 
had  slipped  away  from  her. 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  have  made  no  search 
for  it  ? "  His  expression  has  grown  almost  forbidding  again, 
and  his  sombre  eyes  are  dark  with  passionate  suspicion. 

"  None  whatever  ? "  She  faces  round  upon  him  now 
with  eyes  angry  as  his  own.  "A  moment  ago  you  gave 
me  to  believe  that  you  came  here  to  offer  me  an  apology  for 
conduct  that  to  many  women  would  be  unpardonable. 
Am  I  now  to  regard  that  apology  in  the  light  of  a  clear 
opening  that  was  to  give  you  the  chance  of  offering  me 
further  indignity?  Is  this  generous  or  just?  Can  you 
find  no  bolder  road  to  your  attack  than  this  trivial  affair 
of  a  glove  ?  " 

"  Do  you  call  it  a  trivial  affair  that  breath  of  dishonor 
should  touch  you  ?  " 

"  Your  tone  is  an  insult,"  breathes  she  with  flashing  eyes. 
"  I  refuse  to  understand  it." 

"  You  understand  it  sufficiently  when  you  make  me  that 
answer.  That  my  manner  should  surprise  you  is  absurd- 


I36  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

Do  you  believe  it  possible  that  I  am  the  man  to  look 
tamely  on,  while  you " 

"You  must  be  mad"  interrupts  she,  in  a  low,  vehement 
tone  ;  "mad,  to  speak  to  me  like  this!  Do  you  think  of 
nothing.  Do  you  imagine  me  blind,  or  a  fool  ?  Do  you 
not  see  whither  you  are  urging  me — or,"  lifting  her  hand 
to  her  brow  with  a  horrified  air,  "  is  it  that  you  do  know  ! 
— Stand  back  from  me  !  Do  not  touch  me  !"  Her  horror, 
her  passion,  has  risen  to  a  height.  She  confronts-  him 
with  clenched  hands  and  heaving  bosom,  and  a  marble 
face,  beautiful  in  its  sternness  and  rigidity. 

To  Branksmere  her  rush  of  words  bear  but  a  partial 
meaning.  Of  the  fact  that  she  suspects  his  friendship  with 
Madame  von  Thrisk,  he  is  entirely  in  the  dark.  If  a  little 
calmer  he  would  assuredly  have  been  struck  by  the  extreme 
excitement  of  her  manner,  but  as  it  is,  he  is  still  carried 
along  with  the  tempestuous  stream  of  his  own  suspicions. 

"You  tell  me,  then,  deliberately,  that  you  do  not  know 
where  your  glove  is  ?  "  he  demands,  imperiously. 

"I  know  nothing  about  it,"  returns  she  in  a  stifled  tone. 
Her  passion  is  spent.  Despair  of  her  ruined  life  has  again 
set  in  ;  her  head  sinks,  her  breath  comes  in  long  sad  sighs. 

It  is  at  this  moment  that  the  door  is  softly  opened  and 
Madame  von  Thirsk  comes  softly  in. 


CHAPTER   XXI. 

"  Smooth  runs  the  water  where  the  brook  is  deep." 

"  And  many  strokes,  though  with  a  little  axe, 
Hew  down  and  fell  the  hardest  timber'd  oak.'' 

SHE  has  evidently  been  preparing  her  toilette  for  the 
night.  Her  dinner  gown  has  been  cast  aside,  and  instead 
of  it  she  is  now  robed  in  a  soft  negligee  costume  of  pale 
pink  cashmere,  half  smothered  in  lace  that  hangs  loosely 
round  her  paste  figure,  yet  rather  suggests  than  hides  it. 
It  trails  in  pliant  folds  upon  the  carpet,  and  is  so  far 
drawn  backward  that  her  pretty  shoes  of  white  plush  can 
be  distinctly  seen.  A  heavy  collar  of  yellowed  Mechlin 
lace  falls  away  from  her  fair  round  pillar  of  a  throat,  and 
her  dusky  hair  is  coiled  upward  into  a  high  knot  at 
the  back  of  her  head  that  suits  to  perfection  its  strictly 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  137 

classical  shape.  There  is  a  touch  of  warm,  living  beauty 
about  her  that  makes  itself  felt,  and  brings  Muriel,  with 
an  angry  sense  of  rivalry,  to  a  calmer  state  of  mind. 

In  Madame's  hand  is  a  little  dainty  lamp  of  the  ex- 
quisite Etruscan  form,  that  sends  up  a  lambent  flame  and 
illumines  and  throws  out  the  mystic  shadows  of  her  eyes 
and  the  purity  of  her  dark  pencilled  brows.  She  starts  a 
little  on  seeing  Muriel  and  Lord  Branksmere,  as  though 
she  had  supposed  them  miles  away,  and  then  smiles 
genially. 

"  I  had  no  idea  there  was  any  one  here,"  she  begins, 
with  a  careful  hesitation  that  takes  the  place  of  the  blush 
she  would  fain  have  produced  but  cannot.  "  They  told 
me  every  one  was  in  bed  or  in  the  smoking  room,  so  I  stole 
down  here  to  look  for  my  book,  I  have  mislaid  again. 
My  books" — with  a  little  laugh — "seem  to  be  specially 
artful.  They  have  acquired  a  trick  of  hiding  themselves 
from  me.  I  am  always  losing  them."  She  has  rattled  all 
this  off  very  gaily. 

"You  do,  indeed,  seem  singularly  unfortunate  in  that 
respect,"  returns  Lady  Branksmere,  stonily.  "Can  I  help 
you  to  look  for  it  ?  Is  this  it  ?  " 

"You  have  found  my  truant  for  me  !  Ah,  that  is  very 
kind.  Do  you  know  I  was  on  my  way  to  .your  room  just 
now  ?  I  did  not  know  that  you  and  your  husband—"  with 
a  charmingly  comprehensive  little  nod  at  Branksmere, 
who  is  looking  black  as  midnight,  "were  enjoying  a  cosy 
little  tete-a-tete  here  all  by  yourselves  !  " 

She  beams  sympathetically  upon  them  both  as  though 
to  tell  them  she  is  quite  en  rapport  with  the  lover-like 
sentiments  she  is  so  sure  they  entertain  one  for  the  other. 
She  seems  happily  blind  alike  to  Muriel's  cold  stare  and 
Branksmere's  poorly-suppressed  ill-temper.  Her  manner 
maddens  Muriel. 

"You  wished  to  see  me  ?  "  she  says,  in  an  icy  tone  that, 
however,  fails  to  chill  the  effervescing  Madame. 

"  For  a  moment,  only.  To  do  you  a  little  service  ;  you 
have  done  me  one,"  with  a  graceful  glance  at  the  recov- 
ered book,  "  now,"  playfullv,  "  I  shall  recompense  you. 
See  ! " 

She  draws  out  from  her  pocket  the  long  black  glove 
that  Muriel  had  dropped  in  that  little  sylvan  retreat  where 
she  had  passed  so  tranquil  an  hour  with  Staines. 

"  I  have  rescued  it  for  you,"  cries  Madame,  archly. 
"Captain  Staines  was  very  unwilling  to  part  with  it,  let 


138  LADY  BRANKSMRRE. 

me  tell  you,  but  I  gained  it  by  strategy.  Right  triumphed 
over  by  might  this  time  at  all  events.  I  sought  my  op- 
portunity. 1  laid  in  wait  and  came  off  victor  in  the  end." 

Her  tone  is  quite  amazingly  playful.  Even  Branks- 
mere  might  have  been  struck  by  the  excessive  gayety  of  it, 
had  not  his  mind  been  too  deeply  pierced  by  other  sus- 
picions, born  or  rather  confirmed  by  her  words.  So  then 
Staines  has  been  in  possession  of  the  missing  glove  all 
along.  He  had  even  objected  to  give  it  up.  By  Theckla's 
own  confession  she  had  been  obliged  to  resort  to  strat- 
agem to  rescue  it.  Who  but  a  lover  would  set  such  store 
by  a  woman's  glove  ?  A  lover  ! 

His  dark  eyes  grew  furious,  his  lips  white.  Muriel 
then  had  deceived  him,  not  unintentionally,  but  wilfully. 
That  swift  deep  crimson  blush  of  hers  that  has  lived  in 
his  memory  ever  since,  had  had  its  meaning — its  guilt! 
It  was  not  as  he  had  tried  to  believe,  the  flush  of  righteous 
indignation,  but  the  quick  coloring  of  fear.  She  had,  too, 
purposely  misled  him  ;  she  had  assured  him  she  would 
ask  back  the  glove  from  Staines,  supposing  him  to  have 
it.  But  she  had  not  done  so.  She  had  perhaps  been 
happy  in  the  thought  that  something  belonging  to  her 
was  in  his  possession.  Something  !  Was  he  not  indeed 
the  master  of  all  ?  Her  heart — her  soul — the  love  for 
which  he,  her  husband,  had  sought  and  toiled  in  vain  ? 
Were  all  things  torn  aside  and  the  plain  truth  laid  bare, 
should  it  not  be  shown  that  he,  Branksmere,  was  the 
usurper,  and,  that  other,  the  rightful  heir? 

His  face  has  grown  very  gray,  and  his  mustache  is 
twitching  in  a  nervous  excitable  way.  Madame  is  still 
smiling  ;  but  her  eyes  are  keen  beneath  their  mask  of 
pleasantry,  and  her  glance  travels  swiftly  from  one  to  the 
other  of  those  before  her. 

Muriel,  if  inwardly  a  good  deal  shocked  at  the  turn 
events  have  taken,  shows  outwardly  no  faintest  trace  of 
surprise,  or  anger,  or  any  lesser  emotion.  That  Staines 
should  have  kept  her  glove  is  a  revelation  to  her,  and 
causes  her  some  astonishment,  as  she  was  honestly  ignorant 
of  the  fact  that  he  had  kept  it.  But  that  he  should  have 
stolen  it,  only  to  let  it  be  returned  to  her  in  this  careless 
public  way  surprises  her  still  more.  If  all  this  is  true  he 
had  acted  absurdly  in  the  first  instance,  and  reprehensibly 
in  the  last.  That  he  should  by  any  means  have  let  it  slip 
into  the  possession  of  a  \voman  against  whom  he  had  so 
lately  warned  her  seems  strange,  and  a  swift  fancy  that  it 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  339 

is  all  a  mere  fabrication  of  Madame's  brain  rises  within 
her.  The  strongest  feeling  she  knows  at  the  moment  is  a 
sense  of  indignant  anger  against  the  smiling  handsome 
creature  before  her,  who  with  a  laugh  upon  her  lips  is 
striving  to  make  havoc  of  her  life.  After  all,  Staines  might 
have  innocently  brought  home  the  glove  and  then  flung  it 
on  some  table  or  ottoman  that  it  might  be  seen  and  claimed 
by  its  rightful  owner  ;  it  would  have  been  a  wiser  thing  to 
give  it  to  herself  in  person,  but  still  this  might  have  been  ; 
and  this  designing  woman,  seeing  in  part,  and  guessing  in 
part,  had  made  up  this  plausible  story  out  of  it  all  for  her 
discomfiture  and  her  husband's  delectation.  A  bitter  laugh 
rises  in  her  throat.  Well !  let  them  concoct  as  many  stories 
as  they  please.  The  fact  that  her  glove  was  found  in  any 
man's  possession  will  not  take  her  into  a  divorce  court,  or 
set  her  husband  free. 

"  You  have  given  yourself  an  infinity  of  unnecessary 
trouble,  I  am  afraid,"  she  says,  fixing  her  eyes  meaningly 
upon  Madame.  "There  is  nothing  even  to  be  gained  by 
it — as,"  pointing  to  the  glove,  "  I  have  lost  its  fellow, 
and  shouldn't  have  cared  therefore  if  Captain  Staines  had 
kept  it  forever." 

"Its  fellow?  Perhaps  Captain  Staines  has  that  too," 
cries  Madame,  with  a  soft,  amused  laugh.  "  One  must 
confess  that  he  is  persistent.  Ah,  the  deceitful  one,  to 
pretend  he  had  only  this  little  glove  as  treasure  trove  !" 

Branksmere,  with  a  smothered  ejaculation,  comes  up  to 
his  wife. 

"  Has  lie  the  other  ? "  he  asks,  in  a  low,  but  terrible 
voice.  The  veins  on  his  forehead  are  standing  out  in  thick 
cords. 

Lady  Branksmere  laughs  insolently. 

"Madame  von  Thirsk  is  an  excellent  detective.  Ask 
her,"  she  says,  lifting  her  brows  and  letting  her  lips  fall 
into  a  disdainful  curve. 

"  Answer  me,"  fiercely. 

"  I  shall  give  an  answer  to  no  man  who  addresses  me  in 
that  tone.  Do  not  mistake  me,  my  lord.  I  am  not  your 
slave." 

"  You  lied  to  me  before,"  says  Branksmere.  "  Perhaps 
it  is  as  well  you  do  nut  answer,  lest  you  lie  to  me  again." 

Muriel  turns  livid.  She  leans  back  heavily  against  the 
table,  and  glares  at  him. 

"  Coward  !  "  she  pants  between  her  clinched  teeth. 

Branksmere  turning  abruptly  leaves  the  room.     All  that 


140  LADY  BRANKSMERE, 

has  passed  between  him  and  Muriel  has  been  uttered  in 
tones  so  low,  that  anyone  desirous  of  not  hearing  might 
easily  pretend  ignorance  of  having  overheard  a  word. 
Madame,  now,  with  a  softly  spoken  good-night  moves 
toward  the  lower  door,  as  Branksmere  disappears  through 
the  upper — but  Muriel  stops  her. 

"  Stay,"  she  said,  in  a  clear,  authoritative  voice,  "  I  want 
a  word  with  you." 


CHAPTER  XXII. 

"  There  was  a  laughing  Devil  in  her  sneer.1' 

"  A  HUNDRED  if  you  will,  dear  Lady  Branksmere,"  mur- 
murs the  Hungarian,  suavely.  She  turns,  and,  coming  back 
to  the  centre  of  the  room,  drops  gracefully  into  a  chair. 
It  is  a  chair  that  places  a  table  between  her  and  Muriel. 

"Your  motive?"  demands  Lady  Branksmere,  curtly, 
wheeling  round  upon  her.  She  is  very  pale,  and  her  rather 
squarely-shaped  mouth  is  hard  and  stern. 

"Motive?  I?"  Thekla  von  Thirsk's  handsome  face 
expresses  the  most  unmitigated  astonishment.  "  But  how 
then  ?  I  do  not  understand." 

"  Exert  that  marvellous  brain  of  yours  a  little,  and  per- 
haps you  may.  What  brought  you  here  to-night,  where 
you  knew  Lord  Branksmere  and  I  were  alone,  with  that 
remarkable  little  invention  of  yours  ?  Speak,  and  quickly, 
for  I  will  know." 

"  You  shall  certainly  know  anything  I  have  to  tell  you," 
replies  Madame,  with  a  simple  dignity  that  seems  to  bring 
out  and  heighten  the  subdued  passion  of  the  other,  and 
drag  it  into  an  unenviable  light.  "It  seems  to  me  that  I 
must  have  distressed  you  in  some  way.  But  I  know  noth- 
ing. I  am  entirely  ignorant.  If  you  would  give  me  an 
idea,  a  hint." 

"  No.  Hints  where  you  are  concerned  are  valueless.  I 
have  learned  that,"  returns  Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  cold 
sneer.  "You  will  speak  without  help  from  me." 

"All  this  is  very  perplexing,"  exclaims  Madame,  quite 
miserably.  Then,  as  though  some  sudden  light  has  broken 
in  upon  her.  "  Ah !  pardon  me !  Forgive  me  ! "  she 
cries  eagerly,  "  if  what  I  now  imagine  is  wrong,  but — but 
was  there  some  mystery  connected  with  that  glove,  and 
has  mine  been  the  luckless  hand  to  betray  it  ?  Should 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  141 

Captain  Staines  then,  have  been  left  in  undisputed  posses- 
sion of  it.  Ah,  how  unhappy  I  am  !  Dear  Lady  Branks- 
mere,  at  least  do  me  the  justice  to  believe  that  my 
wretched  interference  was  unmeant.  I  knew  not  there 
was  anything  between  you  and — 

"How  dare  you  talk  to  me  like  this?"  cries  Muriel, 
vehemently,  trembling  from  head  to  foot.  "  Anything  be- 
tween me  and  Captain  Staines !  What  should  there  be  ? 
What  scandal  are  you  striving  to  create  ?" 

"It  might  suggest  itself  that  it  \syou  who  are  creating 
the  scandal,"  returns  Madame,  with  a  curious  glance  at  her. 
"  For  me,  I  had  not  dreamt  of  such  a  thing  ;  and  am  only 
too  glad  (now  that  you  have  forced  the  suspicion  upon 
me)  to  know  from  your  own  lips  that  no  such  thing  ex- 
ists." 

"  Glad ! "  says  Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  bitter  sneer. 
Her  strong  slender  fingers  close  with  unpleasant  force 
upon  the  book  near  her,  move  it  to  and  fro  for  a  mo- 
ment or  so,  and  then  cast  it  from  her  as  if  by  an  uncon- 
trollable impulse.  All  the  time  her  eyes  are  fixed  immov- 
ably upon  Madame,  and  her  breath  is  coming  and  going 
through  her  parted  lips  in  short,  impatient  sighs.  "There 
is  only  one  thing  sweeter  than  the  hearing  of  an  evil  tale 
o*f  one's  acquaintance,"  she  goes  on  presently,  "  and  that  is 
the  being  able  to  bring  one's  self  honestly  to  believe  in  it. 
I  am  afraid  your  joy  is  checkered.  Do  you  quite  believe  ?" 

"  I  do  not  follow  you,  you  talk  to  me  in  so  strange  a 
fashion.  All  I  can  imagine  is  that  I  have  hurt  you  in 
some  unknown  way,  either  through  this  stupid  glove  or 
Captain  Staines.  And  as  for  him,  why  should  I  seek  to 
harm  him  ?  He  has  ever  been  both  kind  and  attentive  to 
me.  I  think  him  altogether  charming,"  lifting  her  eyes 
to  gaze  straight  at  Muriel. 

"Do  you.  You  want  perhaps  to  know  my  opinion," 
with  a  calm  show  of  open  contempt.  "There  is  really  no 
reason  why  you  should  not."  She  pauses  for  a  moment 
as  though  considering.  Madame  is  looking  decidedly  in- 
terested, and  a  pale  smile  widens  Muriel's  lips.  "I  think 
him  good-looking,"  she  says  at  last,  dropping  the  insipid 
remark  slowly,  as  if  the  more  to  enjoy  the  other's  disap- 
pointment. 

"Ah!  Your  tone  makes  your  judgment  harsh,"  says 
Madame,  apparently  unmoved,  though  her  lids  droop  and 
her  mouth  tightens.  It  is  a  regret  to  her  that  she  can 
have  nothing  to  repeat  to  either  side.  "  You  compel  me 


142  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

to  think  you  see  nothing  in  him  beyond  his  appearance, 
which  is  undeniably  good.  Yes,  you  are  severe.  What 
has  he  done  to  you?"  Her  tone — her  glance — is  inno- 
cence itself,  yet  so  full  of  a  subtle  insolence. 

"  Done  to  me  ! "  repeats  Lady  Branksmere,  coldly,  who 
after  all  is  hardly  a  match  for  her.  "  You  are,  it  seems  to 
me,  one  of  those  who  find  all  the  world  alike,  until  one 
shows  him  his  uncivil  side.  You  refuse  to  praise  the 
bridge  you  cannot  cross,  however  safe  others  may  know 
it  to  be.  Your  likes  and  dislikes  are  bound  up  in  a  very 
personal  centre.  It  is  a  doctrine,  sound,  if  narrow.  I," 
with  a  short  glance,  "am  far  less  amiable  than  you." 

"Perhaps,"  suggests  Madame,  with  lowered  eyes,  and  in 
a  slow  measured  tone,  "you  are  even  more  amiable.  Per- 
haps, indeed,  you  have  proved  yourself  a  little  too  ami- 
able !  " 

The  insult  conveyed  is  even  heightened  by  her  methodi- 
cal delivery  of  it,  by  the  total  absence  of  passion  in  voice 
and  manner.  Lady  Branksmere  turns  cold  ;  she  shrinks 
back,  and  then  draws  herself  up  to  her  full  height  as  might 
an  offended  queen. 

"You  are  a  very  daring  woman  !"  she  says,  almost  in  a 
whisper.  "It  may  be — even  a  little  too  daring — for  your 
own  good  !  Is  your  position  in  this  house  so  secure  that 
you  can  afford  to  make  an  enemy  of  its  mistress  ? " 

A  touch  of  despair  that  lies  heavy  on  her  heart  tells  her 
that  she  herself  has  hinted  at  the  truth,  that  this  woman's 
position  in  the  household  is  unassailable. 

"How  am  I  to  translate  such  a  speech  ?"  asks  Madame, 
opening  wide  her  fine  eyes.  "Are  youthen  my  enemy  ? 
But  why  ?  What  is  it  then  that  I  have  done  ?" 

Lady  Branksmere  pales,  and  turns  her  head  from  side  to 
side,  impatiently.  The  very  directness  of  the  appeal  baf- 
fles her.  How  is  she  to  make  reply  ?  How  is  she  to  ex- 
plain to  this  woman  that  she  is  jealous  of  her  influence 
over  her  husband.  Nay,  death  itself  would  be  preferable. 

"Are  you  my  enemy?"  persists  Madame,  looking  bold- 
ly at  her.  Something  about  her  suggests  the  idea  that 
she  is  thoroughly  enjoying  the  situation. 

"You  have  run  too  fast  with  my  words,"  says  Muriel, 
slowly.  "  I  did  not  so  much  say  that,  as  that  it  will  be 
impolitic  of  you  to  make  me  one." 

"Ah,  but  it  is  my  nature  to  be  so  open,  so  candid.  I 
am  ever  impolitic,"  cries  Madame,  regretfully.  "What  I 
think,  that  I  say.  It  is  a  fault,  a  grievous  one,  but  what 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  143 

will  you  ?  Out  it  all  comes  before  I  have  a  moment  in 
which  to  reflect  ;  just  as  it  happened  to-night — ah  ! "  stup- 
ping  herself  abruptly,  as  though  horrified.  "  There  I  go 
again." 

"  To-night  ?  go  on,  what  about  to-night  ?  What  did  you 
say  to-night  that  should  not  be  said  ? " 

"  Something  tells  me  that  I  shall  have  to  get  some  good 
doctor  to  cut  out  my  tongue,"  says  Madame,  mournfully. 
<;  It  will  not  be  reasonable.  You  tell  me  to  avoid  making 
myself  your  enemy.  But  how  then  am  I  to  do  it  ?  I 
know  of  nothing  that  has  been  said  by  me  that  should 
have  offended  you,  and  yet  you  are  angry  with  me.  Will 
you  give  me  a  little  idea,  that  in  future  may  help  me  to 
steer  clear  of  all  conversational  shoals  and  quicksands?" 

All  the  time  she  is  speaking,  there  is  a  touch  of  amuse- 
ment in  the  Hungarian's  eyes  that  is  plain  to  Muriel,  how- 
ever carefully  the  other  tries  to  hide  the  tell-tales  with  her 
sweeping  lashes.  It  is  an  expression  of  triumphant  de- 
fiance, that ,  makes  Lady  Branksmere's  blood  grow  hot 
within  her. 

"I  will,"  she  says,  coldly.  "  In  future  forget  that  I  ex- 
ist. Leave  me  out  of  your  plans,  your  intrigues."  She 
comes  a  little  nearer  to  her.  "  I  have  detained  you  too 
long  already,  Madame.  Pray  do  not  let  me  keep  you  an- 
other moment  from  your  room." 

She  salutes  her  with  studied  politeness  ;  Madame  re- 
turns the  salutation  in  kind,  and,  taking  up  her  Etruscan 
lamp,  glides  from  the  apartment.  The  book,  however,  she 
had  been  so  anxious  to  obtain  is  left  behind  her,  for- 
gotten ! 

Lady  Branksmere,  as  she  sees  it,  smiles  softly  to  herself. 
To  her  this  want  of  memory  tells  its  own  tale,  and  again 
her  pulses  throb  with  angry  contempt.  For  hours  she 
paces  up  and  down  the  deserted  library,  unconscious  of 
the  ever  growing  fatigue — the  increasing  strain  that  is 
weakening  both  her  soul  and  body.  Taking  herself  to 
task  for  this  thing,  arid  encouraging  bitter  resentment  in 
her  heart  for  that — piecing  together  all  the  trivial  events 
of  the  day  and  night,  and  working  them  into  one  inhar- 
monious whole. 

Doors  throughout  the  house  are  opened  and  shut  during 
her  vigil — that  of  the  smoking-room  has  been  given  its 
last  slam.  Voices  have  sounded  through  the  hall  as  the 
men  passed  through,  on  their  way  to  different  apartments, 
and  one  or  two  careless  laughs  have  penetrated  to  where 


144  LADY  BKANKSMERE. 

she  is  walking  up  and  down,  friendless,  alone,  eating  her 
heart  away. 

And  now  at  last  the  house  has  sunk  into  a  calm,  a  quiet, 
a  deadly  silence,  that  momentarily  seems  to  grow  more  in- 
tense, and  winds  up  her  already  shattered  nerves  to  almost 
fever  pitch.  The  fire  has  gone  out  for  the  second  time, 
and  the  cold,  clear  light  of  the  still  May  morn  is  stealing 
through  the  closed  curtains,  putting  to  shame  the  lamps 
within,  that  indeed  are  now  beginning  to  burn  low. 

Muriel,  flinging  wide  the  window,  gazes  out  upon  the 
widening  landscape.  Sadly,  reluctantly,  comes  up  the 
holy  dawn.  The  moon  is  still  alight  in  the  heavens,  and 
a  strange,  sweeping  wind  is  rushing  down  from  the  hill 
tops,  with  an  angry  sighing.  But  still  the  darkness  is 
conquered.  "  Day's  foot  is  set  upon  the  neck  of  light," 
and  over  all  the  sky  is  creeping  a  shadowy  gray. 

The  unquiet  soul  within,  gazing  out  on  all  the  tremu- 
lous beauty,  grows  sad  with  vainest  longing.  To  her  the 
calm,  sweet  break  of  day  brings  only  grievous  regret — the 
contrast  between  it  and  the  sullen  storm  that  still  rages 
in  her  breast — the  inward  crying  for  the  return  of  that  old 
past  life  which  she  by  her  own  act  destroyed  and  bereft  of 
vaguest  flavor,  is  almost  too  painful  to  be  borne.  She 
closes  the  window  with  a  little  shudder  and  moves  with 
languid  steps  toward  the  door. 

She  gains  the  hall,  and  traverses,  like  one  in  a  dream, 
the  wide  marble  staircase,  that  now  looks  grim  and  ghastly 
in  the  stern  light  of  the  coming  dawn.  The  statues  in 
the  niches,  as  she  goes  along,  peer  out  at  her,  looming 
dark  and  forbidding,  showing  just  enough  of  themselves 
to  assure  the  trembling  passer-by  that  they  bear  human 
shape,  and  may  be  therefore  dreaded  as  possible  enemies 
lurking  in  hidden  corners,  to  seize  and  devour  the  unwary. 

Muriel  shivers  nervously,  and  a  little  thrill  of  positive 
fear  runs  through  her.  She  hastens  her  footsteps,  and  as 
she  comes  to  the  last  marble  figure,  an  Ajax,  breaks  into 
a  veritable  run  that  carries  her  past  it  and  well  into  the 
middle  of  the  long  gallery,  before  she  pauses  to  recover 
breath. 

All  here  is  cold,  and  still,  and  dreary.  The  moonlight 
is  still  struggling  in  mortal  combat  with  the  day,  and 
through  the  many  windows  is  casting  a  last  flood  of  glory 
over  everything.  Sometimes  a  passing  cloud  dims  its 
dying  radiance,  and  now,  as  Muriel  finds  herself  oppo- 
site the  tapestry  curtain  that  conceals  the  door  leading  to 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  145 

the  apartments  of  the  Dowager,  and  those  forbidden  ones 
beyond  in  the  haunted  wing — there  comes  to  her  a  sound 
through  the  ghostly  silence  of  the  night,  that  turns  the 
blood  to  water  in  her  veins  ! 

"  Great  heaven  !  What  is  it  ?"  Lady  Branksmere,  hud- 
dling close  against  the  wall  nearest  to  her,  listens  with 
bated  breath  and  frozen  lips  for  the  repetition  of  it. 


CHAPTER   XXIII. 

And  make  my  seated  heart  knock  at  my  ribs. 
Thou  troubles!  me  ;  I  am  not  in  the  vein. 

SLOWLY  it  comes  !  now  rising,  now  falling,  now  uplifting 
itself  into  a  sharp  scream  !  It  rings  through  the  gray 
dawn  ;  a  low  wailing  at  the  first,  and  then  an  unearthly 
sobbing  as  of  a  spirit  bound  ;  and  always  a  cry  that  clings 
and  pierces  to  one's  very  soul.  Again  and  again  it  sounds 
with  muffled  force  upon  the  ear.  Muriel,  shocked,  terri- 
fied, quite  benumbed  with  the  horror  of  a  first  supersti- 
tion, can  scarcely  breathe.  The  housekeeper's  tale  of  that 
dead  and  gone  Lady  Branksmere — who  had  flung  herself 
from  the  turret  window  in  the  mysterious  rooms  beyond, 
and  whose  spirit,  it  was  believed,  came  again  on  windy, 
moonlight  nights,  to  cry  aloud  for  vengeance  on  her  op- 
pressors— recurs  to  her  with  appalling  clearness,  and 
strikes  her  cold  with  fear. 

Her  breath  comes  to  her  in  long,  low  gasps,  and  her 
hands,  cold  and  leaden,  hang  helplessly  by  her  sides.  The 
moments  pass,  and  now  the  horrible  sounds  are  stilled, 
and  a  silence  even  more  terrible  takes  possession  of  the 
startled  night.  Unable  to  bear  it,  Muriel  rouses  herself, 
and,  pale  and  haggard  with  heartfelt  dismay,  makes  a  rush 
for  her  own  room.  Before  she  can  reach  it,  the  weird 
half-stifled  sound  breaks  forth  again,  and  almost  at  the 
same  instant,  Branksmere,  only  partly  dressed  and  look- 
ing white  and  worried,  steps  from  his  own  room  into  the 
corridor. 

Muriel  runs  to  him  !  For  the  first  time  in  all  their  knowl- 
edge of  each  other,  she  is  unfeignedly  glad  to  see  him. 
She  lays  her  hand  upon  his  arm,  and  seems  absolutely  to 
cling  to  him  in  the  agony  of  her  nervous  terror.  She  has 
apparently  forgotten  all  save  that. 


146  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  What  is  it  ? "  she  gasps.  "  What  has  happened  ? 
Speak,  Branksmere,  speak."  Will  she  ever  hear  the  human 
voice  again  ? 

"  It  is  a  fresh  attack,"  replies  he,  hastily.  "  She — the 
— the  Dowager,  is  growing  worse,  I  fear.  The  fits  are 
severer,  more  frequent."  His  agitation  seems  extreme. 
"Do  not  delay  me." 

He  lifts  her  hand  from  his  arm,  and  would  have  hurried 
past  her  but  for  the  glimpse  he  gets  of  her  face.  He  pauses 
and  gazes  at  her  keenly  in  the  uncertain  light. 

"Where  have  you  been  all  this  time  ?"  he  asks.  "Why, 
you  are  still  dressed  !  Down  in  that  cold  room  ?" 

"Yes — yes.  But  never  mind  that.  What  is  the  matter 
with  her  ?  What  an  awful  cry.  Is  she  in  pain — in  grief. 
Yet  it  did  not  sound  like  pain — like — like  madness  rather  !  " 

She  stands  before  him  trembling  and  shivering. 

"A  fit  ? "  replies  he,  shortly.  "  Forget  it  as  soon  as  you 
can  ;  it  need  not  concern  you.  Go  to  bed  at  once  ;  this  is 
no  hour  for  you  to  be  up.  I  believed  you  asleep  long 
ago." 

His  manner  though  scarcely  unkind  is  still  authorita- 
tive, but  Muriel,  spent  as  she  is  in  mind  and  body,  fails  to 
notice  it. 

"  You  are  sure  it  is  the  Dowager  ?"  she  asks  faintly,  her 
thoughts  still  running  on  that  bloody  tale  of  woe  related 
to  her  by  Mrs.  Stout ;  her  mind's  eye  fixed  with  an  ob- 
stinate pertinacity  upon  the  mangled  remains  of  that  un- 
fortunate Lady  of  Branksmere,  as  they  must  have  been 
when  found  next  morning  lying  cold  and  broken  on  the 
court  yard,  paved  with  its  cruel  stones. 

Had  she  been  thinking  less  of  this  direful  story  and 
more  of  Branksmere,  she  might  have  noticed  the  change 
that  had  passed  over  his  countenance  as  her  question  fell 
from  her  lips.  He  starts  violently. 

"  Who  else  should  it  be  ? "  he  demands  with  a  vehemence 
disproportionate  to  the  mildness  of  her  query.  "What 
absurd  ideas  are  you  getting  into  your  head  now  ?  Get 
some  sleep,  I  tell  you  ;  the  day  is  dawning."  He  goes 
away  from  her  a  step  or  two,  and  then  comes  back  again. 
"You  are  shivering,"  he  says,  half  angrily,  touching  her 
hand.  "  That  absurd  practice  of  yours,  of  sending  your 
maid  to  bed  at  twelve  whether  you  are  present  or  absent, 
leaves  you  without  a  fire." 

He  moves  into  a  clearer  bit  of  light  and  consults  his 
watch. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  147 

"  It  is  now  three.  I  don't  suppose  there  is  a  spark  left," 
he  growls  impatiently.  "No  matter  how  unhappy  one 
may  be,  it  is  a  betide  to  kill  one's  self.  Go  into  my  room  for 
a  while.  There  is  a  good  fire  there,  and  warm  yourself 
for  a  moment  or  two." 

"  I  am  not  so  cold  as  you  think.  I  shall,"  with  a  little 
scornful  glance,  "probably  live  through  the  night.  I  am 
tired  only  ;  worn  out.  I  want  to  go  to  bed."  The  dark 
circles  beneath  her  heavy  eyes  bear  witness  to  that. 

"  I  would  advise  you  to  look  at  my  fire  for  a  bit,  never- 
theless." 

"No,  thank  you." 

"What  an  obstinate  woman  you  are,"  cries  he,  sudden- 
ly. "You  would,  I  believe,  rather  freeze  to  death  than 
accept  a  comfort  at  my  hands.  Be  reasonable— go  to  my 
room.  I  swear  to  you,"  bitterly,  "  I  shall  not  intrude  upon 
you  there.  I  shall  probably  not  see  it  again  for  hours." 

Following  upon  his  words  comes  again  that  awful  cry 
that  strikes  them  both  dumb.  It  trembles — rushes  through 
the  gallery  with  a  faint  horrible  clearness,  and  then  dies 
away. 

"  Go,  go,"  cries  Muriel,  in  a  choked  tone.  "  Why  do 
you  delay.  No.  I  will  not  go  to  your  room.  Let  this 
decision  of  mine  end  the  discussion." 

"As  you  will,"  returns  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders,  and 
striding  away  from  her  into  the  darkness  beyond.  Muriel, 
tired  and  saddened,  goes  to  her  own  room,  but  has  scarce- 
ly locked  the  door  when  a  knock  sounds  upon  one  of  the 
panels. 

"  Open  ! "  says  her  husband's  voice,  irritably. 

"What  is  it  you  want?"  asks  she,  wondering.  Her 
hesitation  evidently  creates  in  him  a  deeper  sense  of 
anger. 

"  Not  to  come  in,  certainly,"  he  rejoins,  in  a  tone  that 
conveys  a  frown  to  the  listener.  "  Here — open  quickly,  I 
tell  you — and  take  this  from  me.  It  is  burning  my  fin- 
gers." 

Muriel  flings  wide  the  door,  to  find  him  standing  on  the 
threshold  with  a  huge  burning  log  held  between  a  tongs  in 
one  hand,  and  a  coalbox  full  of  red-hot  cinders  in  the 
other. 

"  What  a  thing  for  you  to  do  !  "  cries  Muriel,  shocked. 
"  I  wish " 

"  Let  me  get  rid  of  it,"  interrupts  he,  ungraciously.  He 
brushes  past  her  and  deposits  his  cargo  in  the  grate — first 


148  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

the  burning  log,  then  the  hot  coals  on  the  top  of  it.  They 
amalgamate  instantly,  and  burst  into  a  glorious  flame. 
"  There.  Perhaps  that  will  keep  you  from  the  consequen- 
ces of  your  folly,"  he  says  brusquely.  "Your  staying  in 
a  fireless  room  till  morning  was  grown  almost  into  day." 

All  at  once  his  face  changes,  and  a  crimson  flush  dyes 
it.  The  calm  light  dies  from  his  eyes,  and  a  hot  suspicion 
takes  its  place. 

"Were  you  alone?  "  he  asks,  in  a  terrible  tone. 

She  has  sunk  into  a  chair,  and  is  sitting  with  her  hands 
folded  listlessly  upon  her  knees.  All  the  spirit  seems  gone 
out  of  her. 

"Quite  alone,"  she  answers,  very  gently.  Then  she 
looks  up  at  him.  "  Spare  me  any  more  insults  for  this 
one  night  at  least,"  she  entreats,  feebly.  "  I  am  so  tired." 

He  turns  aside  from  her  abruptly,  and,  leaving  the  room, 
continues  his  way  to  the  Dowager's  apartments. 

The  sun  is  well  abroad  before  Muriel  wakes.  All  the 
birds  of  the  air  are  singing,  and  nature,  fresh  and  sweet, 
is  crying  aloud  to  the  lazy  ones  of  earth  to  come  out  and 
rejoice  with  it — a  cry  she  disregards.  It  is  indeed  close 
on  noon  when  she  descends  to  the  morning-room,  only  to 
find  it  deserted  by  all  but  Lady  Anne  Branksmere,  who 
is  idling  over  a  set  of  charming  etchings. 

"  Is  your  headache  anything  better  ?  "  asks  she,  rising  to 
greet  her  with  genuine  kindness  in  her  tone.  She  presses 
a  gentle  kiss  upon  Muriel's  white  cheek.  "Ah,  you  do 
look  ill !  How  foolish  to  struggle  downstairs  so  early  with 
this  momentous  ball  before  you  this  evening,  at  which 
everyone  is  bound  to  look  her  best  lest  the  county  swear. 
Come,  let  me  establish  you  upon  this  lounge  near  the  win- 
dow ;  turn  your  eyes  from  the  light  so,  and  lie  still,  while 
I  finish  this  etching." 

Muriel,  to  whom  Lady  Anne  is  the  most  grateful  creat- 
ure in  the  world,  after  Margery,  accedes  to  her  request, 
and,  though  refusing  the  lounge,  sinks  back  thankfully  in 
a  delicious  old  arm-chair  that  could  easily  contain  two  of 
her,  and  closes  her  eyes  against  the  light. 

But  her  thoughts  forbid  rest. 

"Anne,"  she  says,  presently,  leaning  forward,  "what  of 
this  woman,  this  Madame  von  Thirsk  ?" 

"Well,  what  ?"  asks  Lady  Anne,  mildly,  though  in  truth 
she  is  a  little  startled. 

"You  should  know  a  good  deal  of  her.  Tell  me  what 
you  know." 


LADY  BRANKSMERR.  149 

Anne  Branksmere,  casting  a  shrewd  glance  at  her,  draws 
her  own  wise  conclusions. 

"There  is  so  little  to  tell,"  she  says,  when  with  a  steady 
hand  she  has  put  in  a  touch  or  two  in  her  etching.  "She 
is,  to  begin  with,  a  Hungarian  of  good  birth,  with  a  con- 
siderable fortune.  Some  time  ago  she  became  acquainted 
with  the  Dowager.  How,  I  hardly  know,  but  she  seems 
to  have  struck  up  a  lasting  friendship  with  her  ;  became 
enamoured  of  her  charms,  no  doubt,"  with  an  amused 
shrug,  "and  has  been  devoted  to  her  ever  since.  Via 
tout" 

"  With  just  the  rest  left  out,"  returns  Muriel,  delib- 
erately. "  You  will  not  speak,  then  ?  You  like  this 
woman  ? " 

"  Do  not  mistake  me.  I  would  speak,  believe  me,  were 
there  anything  to  say,  because  I  happen  to  like  you  better," 
says  Lady  Anne,  with  quiet  meaning.  "  But,'  J.  assure 
you,  there  is  nothing,  or,  if  there  is,  I  am  ignorant  of  it. 
Like  her  ?  Well,  I  hardly  know And  you  ? " 

"  I  detest  her,"  coldly. 

"  Now  that  I  think  her  over,  that  scarcely  surprises  me. 
I  have  grown  so  used  to  her  myself  in  all  these  years,  you 
see,  that  I  have  forgotten  to  analyze  my  feelings  with  re- 
gard to  her.  Yet  it  seems  natural  enough  to  me,  that  one, 
a  stranger  to  her,  might  fail  to  see  her  in  a  rosy  light.  She 
has  her  virtues,  nevertheless.  She  is  a  very  angel  to  that 
hapless  old  skeleton  upstairs,  who,  you  must  acknowledge, 
is  not  exactly  attractive  either  in  appearance  or  manners." 

"  That  makes  her  devotion  all  the  more  remarkable." 

"As  I  think  I  told  you  before,  the  intimacy  between 
them  began  almost  immediately  after  poor  Arthur's  tragic 
death.  About  that  time,  too,  the  old  lady  became  a  victim 
to  certain  nervous  attacks,  brought  on,  they  said,  by  the 
shock  she  sustained  on  hearing  of  her  grandson's  death. 
To  me,"  says  Lady  Anne,  thoughtfully,  "  it  is  always  a 
matter  of  wonder  how  she  manages  to  still  hold  her  worn- 
out  threads  of  life  free  of  breakage,  considering  what  an 
additional  pressure  these  attacks  must  make  upon  it.  It 
is  seven  years  since  poor  Arthur  died — therefore  for  seven 
years  she  has  suffered  from  them.  I  never  saw  her  in 
one,  but  I  have  been  given  to  understand  they  are  very 
distressing  to  witness.  Yet  Madame  has  been  faithful  to 
that  trial  of  friendship  ;  she  has  carefully  attended  her 
all  these  years." 

"  Seven   years  !     A  long  time,"  says  Muriel,    absently. 


150  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"You  have  been  a  widow  all  that  time  ?"  looking  up  at 
Lady  Anne  suddenly,  with  a  surprised  gravity.  "  I  won- 
der you  have  never  married." 

"  So  do  I,"  returns  Lady  Anne,  frankly,  with  a  slight 
laugh.  "  But  don't  despair  about  me  yet.  I  dare  say  I 
shall  marry  Primrose  before  I  die.  I  am  fond  of  that  little 
man,  and  if  the  fact  that  he  asks  me  regularly  once  a 
month  to  share  his  life  means  anything,  I  should  say  he  is 
fond  of  me,  too.  Yes,  I  really  believe  he  loves  me,  and  for 
myself  alone  you  will  be  pleased  to  understand  :  I  have 
really  no  money  worth  speaking  about,  and  he  lias  consid- 
erably more  than  is  good  for  him,  or  that  he  quite  knows 
what  to  do  with." 

It  is  rather  amusing  to  see  how  the  tall,  handsome,  Juno- 
like  woman  revels  in  this  thought  and  makes  a  point  of  it. 
She  draws  up  her  posse  figure  to  its  greatest  height,  and 
smiles  pleasantly.  She  is  evidently  charmed  with  her  con- 
quest of  the  little  man,  who  would  almost  have  fitted  into 
her  pocket.  "  And  yet  I  don't  know,"  she  goes  on,  with  a 
quick  sigh.  "  When  I  remember  the  past,  and  how  good 
poor  Arthur  always  was  to  me,  I  feel  as  if  I  should  never 
marry  again." 

"  Poor  Primrose — it  is  sad  that  a  shadow  should  be  the 
means  of  depriving  him  of  his  desire,"  says  Muriel,  slowly. 
"  If,  in  time,  you  do  bring  yourself  to  accept  him,  I  shall 
regard  him  as  one  of  the  few  fortunate  ones  of  the  earth." 

"  I  drop  you  a  curtsey,"  returns  Lady  Anne.  "  But  to 
return  to  our  subject.  I  don't  want  you  to  encourage  any 
erroneous  views  about  Madame.  She  is  of  inestimable 
value  to  that  old  woman  above,  and  her  place  would  be 
difficult  to  fill.  Think  what  responsibility  she  lifts  from 
your  shoulders.  I  hear  those  attacks  of  the  Dowager's  are 
growing  in  strength  daily.  You  could  scarcely  leave  the 
miserable  old  creature  entirely  to  the  care  of  servants,  and 
Madame  is  such  an  excellent  go-between.  If  I  were  you,  I 
think  I  should  look  upon  her  in  the  light  of  a  special 
providence." 

"What  of  her  husband?  She  had  one?"  asks  Lady 
Branksmere — taking  no  notice  of  Anne's  last  remark. 

"  Beyond  any  dispute.  He  was  a  respectable  old — Rus- 
sian, I  think  it  was — with  nothing  to  be  said  for  or  against 
him.  An  amiable  nonentity.  He  lived  ;  he  died  !  That 
is  all.  There  was  nothing  in  between." 

"He  really  did  die?" 

"Oh,  dear,  yes  ;  and  rather  early  in  the  proceedings,  I 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  151 

believe.  She  is  a  bona-fide  widow,  there  can  be  no  doubt 
of  that."  Then  very  gently  :  "  If  you  want  to  get  her  out 
of  the  house,  Muriel,  why  not  speak  to  Branksmere  about 
it  ?  I  should  think  the  Dowager's  discomfort  and  objec- 
tions might  be  squared." 

Muriel  is  silent.  Would  it  indeed  be  possible  to  do  this 
thing?  She  would  have  liked  to  discuss  the  matter,  but 
how  explain  to  Lady  Anne  her  doubts  of  Branksmere's 
willingness  to  help  her.  The  "speaking"  to  him  might 
not  perhaps  enable  her  to  compass  her  desire  after  all. 
She  sighs  impatiently. 

"And  yet  I  would  have  you  consider,  before  taking  so 
important  a  step,"  continues  Lady  Anne,  not  noticing  par- 
ticularly her  somewhat  awkward  hesitation.  "  Madame 
von  Thirsk  is  not  an  ordinary  woman.  She,  and  she  alone 
I  am  told,  can  manage  the  Dowager,  when  those  direful 
attacks  have  seized  hold  of  her.  A  new  face  at  such  times 
infuriates  the  poor  old  woman,  and  in  fact  no  one  except 
Madame  and  Branksmere  himself  dare  approach  her  when 
she  is  suffering  from  one.  I  would  have  you  think  what  a 
world  of  trouble  you  are  accumulating  for  yourself  if  you 
decide  on  discarding  Thekla.  She  is,  beyond  everything,  a 
woman  of  character." 

"  I  can  quite  believe  that.  (Bad  character," — she  tells 
herself,  with  a  sense  of  undying  enmity  toward  the  woman 
in  question.) 

"  She  has  proved  it.  For  ten  long  years  she  has  been 
true  to  her  trust." 

"  Do  you  honestly  think,"  asks  Muriel,  suddenly,  "that 
she  has  wasted  all  those  years  through  love  of  Lady 
Branksmere  ?" 

Anne  Branksmere  lays  down  her  pencil.  "As  far  and 
as  honestly  as  I  can  judge.  Yes"  she  says;  "and,  at  all 
events,  of  this  one  thing  be  sure  :  If  she  at  any  time  enter- 
tained a  tendresse  for  Branksmere,  he  never  entertained  one 
for  her!"  Once  again  she  takes  up  her  pencil.  "Think 
of  to-night !  Think  of  to-night,"  she  cries  gayly,  with  a 
sudden  sparkling  change  of  tone  that  kills  any  solemnity 
that  may  have  been  in  her  manner  before.  "And  dismiss 
from  you  all  distasteful  fancies  ;  they  are  fatal  to  one's  di- 
gestion and  ruinous  to  one's  complexion." 


152  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

CHAPTER  XXIV. 

What !  wouldst  thou  have  a  serpent  sting  thee  twice  ? 

ALTHOUGH  Muriel  will  not  permit  herself  to  receive  as 
gospel  all  Lady  Anne  has  said,  still  her  last  words  assuredly 
carry  with  them  the  germs  of  comfort.  In  spite  of  herself 
she  is  solaced  by  them.  A  longing  to  believe  in  them  helps 
her  to  a  belief,  as  well  as  a  desire  to  be  at  peace  with  her 
self-love,  which  is  strong  within  her.  A  woman  may  not 
care  for  her  husband — such  sad  things  sometimes  are — 
but  still  to  be  slighted  by  him,  and  placed  second  to 
another  will  always  be  very  bitter  to  her. 

Now  Muriel  feels  softened,  saddened.  The  wild  thoughts 
of  last  night  sink  into  insignificance.  Perhaps,  after  all,  she 
had  too  hastily  judged  Madame — had  been  unreasonably 
cruel  in  her  manner  toward  her.  Anne  has  dwelt  upon 
her  good  points,  has  shown  them  out,  and  assured  her  of 
them.  Anne  !  whose  judgment  is  always  calm,  and  strong, 
and  sure.  Has  s/ie,  Muriel,  been  blinded,  led  astray  by  a 
mere  fancy?  and  dulled  by  a  prejudice  that  has  no  foun- 
dation save  in  her  own  diseased  and  burdened  brain  ? 

Through  the  house  there  is  running  the  news  of  the 
Dowager's  last  seizure,  and  of  how  Madame  sat  up  with 
her  all  the  past  night  careless  of  fatigue.  The  old  woman's 
bodily  foe  had  been,  it  is  whispered,  stronger  than  usual, 
and  those  who  watched  with  her  had  fought  hard  for 
victory.  The  truth  of  this  struggle  is  manifested  -in 
Madame's  face,  as  Muriel  sees  it  presently.  Passing 
through  the  hall  with  a  slow  and  wearied  step,  she  chances 
fo  enter  the  library,  where  Muriel,  too,  has  wandered,  and 
not  seeing  Lady  Branksmere,  sinks  into  an  arm-chair  and 
gazes  absently  at  the  fire.  Her  face  is  white,  her  eyes 
heavy,  her  whole  air  stricken  with  a  grief  she  seems  so 
anxious  to  conceal,  that  Muriel,  who  has  issued  impulsively 
from  her  unmeant  hiding-place  in  the  window,  feels  she 
dare  not  allude  to  it. 

A  desire  to  forget  her  own  unestablished  wrongs,  to  let 
the  uncertain  doubt  of  the  past  weeks  die,  is  great  within 
her  as  she  moves  toward  the  arm-chair,  where  the  woman 
she  has  been  regarding  as  an  enemy  lies  crushed  and  sor- 
row-stricken. Before  she  can  reach  her,  however,  or  make 
her  presence  known,  Branksmere  enters  the  room. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  153 

Madame  raises  her  head,  and,  for  the  first  time  seeing 
Muriel,  starts  a  little.  Instantly  she  flings  from  her  the 
air  of  dejection  that  had  been  hanging  round  her,  and 
taking  up  a  box  of  bonbons  lying  on  the  table  at  her 
elbow,  seems  to  lose  herself  in  a  pleasant  appreciation  of 
them.  All  suspicion  of  care  quits  her  face.  The  mouth 
that  a  moment  since  drooped  sadly,  now  grows  full  and 
red  ;  her  eyes  gleam.  She  leans  back  in  her  chair  with  a 
comfortable  gesture,  and  assumes  an  expression  that 
speaks  well  for  her  Men  etre.  Branksmere  makes  his  wife 
a  cold  salutation. 

"You  are  in  less  pain,  I  hope?"  he  asks,  politely. 
"  They  told  me  your  head  was  very  bad." 

"It  was.     It  is  no\v,  however,  free  of  the  throbbing." 

He  bows  again  as  though  courteously  pleased  to  hear  it, 
and  walks  past  her  down  the  room  to  the  bookcase  at  the 
lower  end.  Muriel  going  up  to  Madame  holds  out  her 
hand. 

"  You,  too,  had  a  bad  night,  I  fear  ? "  she  says,  with  a 
faint  smile,  and  in  a  tone  that  struggles  to  be  gracious. 
"  I  hope  you  have  in  part  recovered  from  your  fatigue  ; 
that  you  are  feeling  better  ?  " 

"  I  am  feeling  well,  thank  you,"  with  slow  and  marked 
astonishment  in  voice  and  manner.  She  looks  at  Lady 
Branksmere  with  a  curious  smile,  while  altogether  refus- 
ing to  see  or  accept  the  proffered  hand. 
'  "Will  you  not  take  my  hand  ?"  asks  Lady  Branksmere, 
haughtily. 

"  Do  you  then  wish  me  to  accept  it  ? " 

"Naturally,"  turning  very  pale,  "or  I  should  not  be 
standing  as  I  now  am."  She  is  looking  down  upon 
Madame  in  a  stern  rigid  attitude,  with  her  hand  still  out- 
stretched. Madame  laughs. 

"Ah  !  that  is  supremely  good  of  you — very  sweet !  "  she 
murmurs,  Avith  a  slight  increase  of  the  curious  smile,  and  a 
little  shrug  of  her  handsome  shoulders.  She  turns  back 
deliberately  to  her  bonbons,  as  though  the  dainty  snow- 
white  hand  of  her  hostess  gleaming  with  its  jewels  is  un- 
seen by  her. 

"  It  is  war  then  between  us  ?  "  asks  Muriel,  in  a  low,  con- 
centrated tone.  "  It  is  well !  Peace  would  have  been  im- 
possible. I  thank  you  for  the  chance  you  have  afforded 
me  of  learning  our  true  positions  with  regard  to  each 
other." 

"  You  must  acknowledge  then  that  I  am  at  least  good' 


154  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

natured,"  says  Madame,  unmoved  and  always  with  the 
eternal  smile.  "  I  have  saved  you  a  scene.  Now — with- 
out any  trouble — you  know!  Try  some  of  those  sweet- 
meats, they  are  altogether  desirable  !  " 

"So  good;  so  sweet!  Quite  like  me!"  replies  Lady 
Branksmere,  contemptuously. 

"  Ah  ?  Yes  ?  "  questions  Madame,  reflectively.  "  Well — 
perhaps  so.  Now  and  then  one  does  find  them — hollow  !  " 

"What!  the  sweetmeats?"  asks  Branksmere,  who  has 
ransacked  the  bookcase  successfully,  and  has  now  come 
up  to  them  again  in  the  delusive  belief  that  they  are  chat- 
tering to  each  other  on  friendly  terms.  "  They  are  empty 
at  times,  eh  ?  Nothing  in  them  !  " 

Madame,  breaking  into  a  low  laugh  of  utter  enjoyment, 
rises  to  her  feet  and  sweeps  past  him  and  out  of  the  room. 
Muriel,  too,  lias  sprung  from  her  chair,  but  he  is  hardly 
prepared  for  the  hurricane  her  face  portrays. 

With  parted  lips  and  flashing  eyes  she  turns  to  her  hus- 
band. 

"  You  meant  that !  "  she  says,  her  bosom  panting.  "You 
assist  that  woman  in  her  insolence  !  " 

"  Insolence  !  In  Madame  !  I  do  not  understand." 

"  You  are  innocence  itself !  "  Her  voice  has  sunk  almost 
to  a  breath.  She  advances  a  step  or  two  nearer  to  him, 
and  now  twines  her  hands  behind  her  back  so  that  she  can, 
unseen,  grasp  the  rung  of  the  chair  nearest  her.  This 
gives  her  a  help  ;  a  sense  of  support ;  and  so  standing  her 
beautiful  figure  looks  positively  superb  !  She  is  dressed 
in  a  satin  gown  of  striped  amber  and  black  that  adds  to 
her  height,  and  throws  out  the  delicate  pallor  of  her  skin. 

"  Send  that  woman  away —  '  she  says,  imperiously. 
"  This  Madame  von  Thirsk  ? — I  demand  this  thing  as  my 
right — as  your  wife  !  " 

"Why  should  you  demand  it?"  coldly.  -"Our  family 
has  been  under  heavy  obligations  to  her  for  years." 

"  Are  you  under  heavy  obligations  ? " 

"  It  is  at  least  impossible  I  should  treat  her  as  you  de- 
sire." 

"You  refuse,  then?  You,  in  effect,  protect  her  against 
me  :  what  is  this  woman  to  you  ?  " 

"  To  me  individually,  nothing!  " 

"  Yet  for  her  sake  you  insult  your  wife  ?" 

"  My  good  child,"  says  Branksmere,  in  a  rather  bored 
tone,  "  you  overdo  the  thing,  rather.  Believe  me  I  would 
willingly  insult  no  one — you,  least  of  all !  " 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  155 

"  Words  !  words  !  "  cries  she,  passionately.  "  You  dare 
not  send  her  away  even  if  you  would.  That  is  the  unvar- 
nished truth  !  I  am  not  mad  or  blind,  Branksmere.  If 
you  refuse  to  take  a  step  in  this  matter  I  shall  understand 
that  you  rank  your — mistress  higher  than  your  wife." 

Branksmere  starts  as  though  he  had  been  shot  !  The 
veins  swell  upon  his  forehead.  He  looks  at  the  beautiful 
angry  creature  before  him  as  though  he  could  kill  her. 
He  takes  a  step  forward. 

"  How  dare  you  speak  so  to  me  !  "  he  says  in  such  a 
terrible  voice  that  Muriel  secretly  quails  beneath  it.  She 
throws  up  her  head,  however,  with  a  dark  frown,  and 
walks  toward  the  door  with  a  slow,  disdainful  step.  On 
the  threshold  she  pauses  to  glance  back  at  him. 

"  A.^ you  decline  to  act,  /shall  speak  to  Madame  herself," 
she  says,  with  cold  distinctness,  closing  the  door  behind 
her. 

She  crosses  the  hall  and  enters  the  blue  anteroom  that 
experience  has  taught  her  Madame,  as  a  rule,  frequents. 
It  is  a  quiet  little  room  that  leads  nowhere,  and  is  of  small 
account  in  the  household. 

"  Give  me  a  few  minutes,"  she  says,  going  straight  up  to 
the  Hungarian,  and  addressing  her  without  further  pream- 
ble. "After  all  that  has  passed  between  us  of  late,  some 
arrangement  is  necessary.  When  do  you  leave  ? " 

"Ask  Branksmere  ?"  replies  Madame,  looking  her  fair 
in  the  eyes. 

"  Lord  Branksmere  !  What  has  he  got  to  do  with  your 
going  or  staying  ?  " 

"  Ask  him  that,  too." 

For  a  moment  Muriel  looks  so  ghastly  that  one  might 
believe  her  on  the  verge  of  fainting. 

"  This  is  terrible  !  "  she  says  in  a  tremulous  way.  "Am 
I  to  understand  that  you  will  not  leave  my  house  ?  What 
bond  is  there  between  you  and  Branksmere  that  should 
kill  within  you  all  sense  of  decency  and  womanhood  ?" 

"  Alas  !  that  I  cannot  answer  you,"  says  Madame  spread- 
ing wide  her  hands;  "that  I  must  again  say  to  you — ask 
Branksmere  !  "  She  looks  up  at  Muriel  with  a  half  amused 
air,  and  with  a  little  mischievous  smile  that  lurks  like  a 
devil  at  the  corners  of  her  lips. 


156  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

CHAPTER   XXV. 

"  'Tis  more  easy  to  tie  knots  than  to  unloose  them." 


"THE  question  is,  what  it  was  you  did  say  to  her,"  ex- 
claims Branksmere,  with  suppressed  violence.  He  is  look- 
ing white  and  perturbed,  and  there  is  a  rather  set  expres- 
sion about  his  lower  jaw.  He  has  arranged  his  shoulders 
in  a  forcible  fashion  against  the  marble  chimney  piece,  and 
is  gazing  darkly  at  Madame  von  Thirsk,  as  though  demand- 
ing from  her  an  explanation. 

"  Say  to  her  ?  Why  absolutely  nothing  !  Of  what  are 
you  accusing  me,  Branksmere?  Do  you  not  know  me  yet  ? 
I  was  silent,  ominously  so,  perhaps  ;  but  I  confess  I  was  a 
little  taken  aback.  Ask  her — Lady  Branksmere — to  re- 
peat to  you  a  single  remark  I  made  voluntarily."  Madame 
lets  her  fine  eyes  rest  on  him  a  little  plaintively.  "It  is 
unlike  you  to  misjudge  me,  my  friend  ;  but  the  truth  as- 
serts itself  ever.  I  tell  you  I  was  most  scrupulously  care- 
ful to  breathe  of  nothing  that  might  betray  you.  I  said 
always  when  she  questioned  me,  '  Ask  Branksmere  ! '  No 
more,  no  less  !  From  first  to  last  during  the  distressing 
interview' — and  I  confess," — with  a  careful  sigh — "  it  has 
disheartened  me.  I  said  nothing  else." 

"  But— 

"  You  will  not  believe  me  then  ?   Ask  her,  I  desire  you." 

"  It  is  not  that.  I  do  believe  you,  but  such  a  little  thing 
as  that  to — to — 

"  Make  her  lose  her  temper  ?  Ah  !  you  forget  that  a  sore 
heart  makes  one  petulant." 

"  Why  should  her  heart  be  sad  above  its  fellows  ? "  asks 
he,  a  sullen  cloud  making  his  face  angry. 

"  There  are  reasons,  ire's  cher.  I  am  your  friend,  always, 
as  I  say,  and  I  must  speak.  I  ask  you  frankly,  Branks- 
mere, were  you  her  heart's  first  choice?  Ah!  there! 
not  another  word  then.  Many  a  woman  loves  well  for 
the  second  time,  and  you  may  yet  be  blessed  ;  but  d pre- 
sent  !  To  return  to  our  subject.  I  tell  you  I  have 

been  faithful  to  you  all  through,  and  I  said  to  her  'Ask 
Branksmere '  only  because  I  thought  it  was  the  best  thing 
to  say  under  the  circumstances." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  157 

"  It  is  difficult  to  know  what  is  the  best  thing,"  returns 
he,  gloomily. 

"  There  I  agree  with  you,  but  at  the  moment  be  sure  I 
was  wise.  I  am  at  times,  as  you  have  reason  to  know  " — 
with  a  quick  flashing  smile — "  rather  too  impulsive,  and  if 
I  had  attempted  an  explanation  dire  might  have  been  the 
results.  I  should  probably  have  said  just  the  little  word 
too  much,  and  our  secret  would  have  been  imperilled." 

"  Our  secret,  as  you  call  it,  is  carrying  me  rather  too 
far,"  says  Branksmere.  "Something  must  be  done  to  les- 
sen the  pressure  ;  some  explanation  offered." 

"  I  am  almost  sure  I  do  not  grasp  your  meaning.  It  is 
impossible"  exclaims  Madame,  growing  deadly  pale.  "  You 
will  not  tell  me  that,  after  all  these  years,  you  are  about 
to  enlighten  another — a  stranger." 

"  Partially.     Yes." 

"  Pah  !  There  is  no  such  thing  as  a  partial  explanation 
in  such  a  case.  Branksmere,  pause  !  Consider  what  it  is 
you  contemplate.  Have  you  forgotten  how  many  your 
revelation  will  dishonor  ?  There  is  Lady  Anne." 

"  Poor  Anne  !  "  replies  he,  sadly.  "  After  all,"  lifting 
his  head,  "  perhaps  publicity  is  the  one  thing  that  should 
serve  her." 

"  Ah  !  You  are  like  all  other  men.  You  think  what  you 
want  to  think." 

"  I  think  only  now  that  something  is  due  to  Lady  Branks- 
mere." 

"  And  is  nothing  due  to  me,  after  all  these  long  years  ? 
Do  you,  perhaps,  imagine  that  I  am  happy,  that  I  do  not 
suffer  ?  That  the  insults  your  wife  delights  in  heaping 
upon  me  are  unfelt  by  me  ?  That  I — 

"  Let  me  speak  for  a  moment." 

"  Am  I  a  cypher  ?  "  continues  she,  passionately,  disdain- 
ing to  listen.  "  Is  all  feeling,  think  you,  dead  within  me  ? 
I  have  borne  much  for  you,  Branksmere,  but  even  pa- 
tience has  its  limit." 

"If  you  won't  hear  me —    -"  shrugging  his  shoulders. 

"You  imagine,  it  may  be,  that  I  stay  on  here  from 
choice,"  cries  she,  springing  to  her  feet  arid  confronting 
him  with  her  dark  eyes  all  aglow.  "A  sorry  choice  !  It 
is  only  true  that  I  stay  on  here  braving  all  things,  for  your 
sake,  to  save  your  honor — the  honor  of  your  house  !  " 

She  drops  back  into  her  chair  again  and  clasps  her  hands 
tightly  together. 

"  There  are  other  reasons,  Thekla,"  says  Lord  Branks- 


158  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

mere,  slowly,  his  eyes  on  hers.  "  Do  you  dare  to  deny  to 
me  that  it  is  love  that  chains  your  feet  and  keeps  you 
here  ? " 

He  smiles,  and,  leaning  over  her,  lays  a  gentle  hand  upon 
her  arm.  For  a.  full  minute  she  gazes  at  him  as  though 
she  would  read  his  very  soul.  Her  color  dies  from  her. 

Does  he  mean ?  If  he  should.  She  brings  her  teeth 

down  sharply  on  her  under  lip  with  such  force  that  the 
crimson  blood,  rushing  into  it,  dyes  it  vividly,  making  it 
gleam  like  a  red  shadow  against  the  intense  pallor  of  her 
face.  Has  he  forgotten  all,  or  is  it  just  now  strongly  with 
him  ?  Then  the  quick  consciousness  fades.  Cruel  mem- 
ory, strange  hope — all  disappear  !  Her  lids  droop  over 
her  burning  eyes.  It  is  with  difficulty  she  restrains  her 
fingers  from  rising  to  cover  them. 

"  You  are  right,"  she  answers,  in  a  stifled  tone.  "  Love 
alone  chains -me  to  this  spot." 

"  I  know  it,"  returns  Branksmere  with  a  peculiar  smile. 
There  is  silence  between  them  for  a  little  while,  and 
then  : 

"  It  is  unfortunate  that  her  suspicions  should  have  been 
aroused,"  says  Branksmere,  slowly.  "  It  never  occurred  to 
me  that  it  might  be  so,  but  you,  as  a  woman  should  have 
known." 

"What  are  her  suspicions,"  coldly. 

She  regards  him  keenly  as  he  makes  a  pretence  of  pok- 
ing the  fire  and  notes  the  dull  red  of  shamed  confusion 
that  flames  into  his  cheeks. 

"  Paltry  ones,  I  confess — but  can  you  blame  her  that  she 
encourages  them  ?  What  must  she  think  ?  What  trans- 
lation of  the  difficulty  presents  itself  to  her  ?  " 

"There  is  your  grandmother,  the  Dowager — Lady 
Branksmere— she  should  account  for  everything." 

"  For  the  whole  air  of  mystery  that  surrounds  us  ? 
Would  it  account  to  you  ?" 

"  If  I  loved  you.     Yes." 

The  insinuation  is  obvious.  Madame  is  glad  within  her 
as  she  notes  the  sudden  change  that  darkens  his  face. 
Why  should  this  truth  not  be  held  up  forever  before  his 
eyes.  Staines'  words  recur  to  her  at  this  instant  standing 
out  before  her  in  letters  as  it  were  of  blood. 

'"It  seems  to  me  that  Branksmere  might  then  readily 
sue  for  and  obtain  a  divorce  that  would  leave  him  free  to 
wed  another  woman  in  every  way  more  suited  to  him."' 

"  Love  has  nothing  to  do  with  this,"  says  Branksmere, 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  159 

breaking  in  upon  her  reverie.  "It  is  a  point  where  duty 
touches  one  more  than  anything  else."  He  is  looking 
haggard  and  miserable,  but  her  heart  remains  unmoved. 

"  You  will  tell  her,  then,"  she  says.  "  You  have  finally 
made  up  your  mind  to  break  the  most  sacred  oath  a  man 
ever  swore  ? " 

"  I  shall  not  explain  everything,"  interrupts  he,  impa- 
tiently. "  You  shall  be  kept  out  of  it  ;  and  there  are  other 
things — I  only  wish  to  give  her  what  satisfaction  I  hon- 
orably can.  I  feel  that  when  one  marries  a  woman,  one 
owes  her  fealty,  loyalty,  all !  and  that  I  unhappily  must 
refuse  her  the  entire  confidence  that  belongs  to  her  of 
right." 

"  And  she  ?  What  does  she  owe  you  ?  The  same  ? 
Fealty  ?  Loyalty  ?  An  entire  confidence  ?  It  is  a  very 
charming  conception,  but .  Well,  I  hope  you  are  sat- 
isfied, Branksmere." 

"  Why  do  you  seek  to  torture  me  like  this  ?  "  cries  he, 
turning  suddenly  upon  her  with  flashing  eyes.  "  You  are 
an  old — friend ;  but  even  such  a  one  may  go  too  far.  Say 
I  once  loved  her;  say  my  love  is  dead.  Still,  shall  I  not 
writhe  when  her — my — honor,  is  attacked  ?  And  who 
shall  say  I  have  not  been  to  blame  with  regard  to  her  ? 
She  has  had  much  cause  for  discontent.  I  will  remove  it 
in  so  far  as  I  am  able." 

"  You  can  make  all  things  clear  to  her  if  you  will,"  says 
Madame,  rising  and  leaning  her  hands  heavily  on  the  table 
before  her.  "  Do.  You  have  my  full  permission  at  least. 
What  is  the  old  bond  that  unites  us  in  comparison  with 
your — wife's  happiness  ?  " 

"  No.  I  shall  leave  you  out  of  it.  My  honor  is  given 
to  you  as  well  as  to  her.  I  do  not  forget !  "  returns  he, 
slowly.  Turning  away  from  her  he  sinks  into  a  chair  by 
a  Davenport  and  mechanically  takes  a  pen  in  hand. 

"When  will  you  seek  to  allay  the  fears  of  Lady  Branks- 
mere ?"  asks  Madame,  in  a  voice  that  seeks  in  vain  to  con- 
trol its  contempt  and  its  disappointment. 

"  To-night — no,"  glancing  at  his  watch.  "  It  is  already 
too  late.  This  ball  will  engage  her  attention,  and  just  now 
her  guests  require  her.  I  shall  wait.  To-morrow."  He 
pauses,  pen  in  hand,  as  though  musing,  forgetful  of  her 
presence.  "  To-morrow " 

He  dips  his  pen  into  the  ink,  and,  drawing  a  sheet  of 
paper  toward  him,  begins  to  write  rapidly.  Madame,  see- 
ing herself  so  innocently  ignored,  steps  on  to  the  balcony. 


i5o  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Adieu,  Branksmere,"  she  says,  courteously,  glancing 
backward. 

"  Adieu,"  replies  he  in  a  muffled  tone  that  convinces  her 
he  has  for  the  time  being  forgotten  her  existence. 

With  a  little  frown  she  moves  away  out  of  sight  of  the 
window,  but  a  last  thought  recurring  to  her,  she  retraces 
her  steps,  and  once  more  enters  the  library.  Branksmere 
is  still  writing.  As  she  stands,  the  heavy  old  gold  curtains 
fall  round  and  hide  her,  and,  possessed  by  the  clever  pa- 
tience that  usually  characterizes  her,  she  stands  quite  still, 
leaning  against  the  shutter,  waiting  until  he  shall  throw 
his  pen  aside.  As  she  so  stands  she  is  quite  concealed 
from  view. 


CHAPTER  XXVI. 

"  The  passions,  like  heavy  bodies  down  steep  hills,  once  in  motion,  move 
themselves,  and  know  no  ground  but  the  bottom." 


A  FOOTMAN  entering,  lays  an  exquisite  white  bouquet  upon 
the  table  in  the  centre  of  the  room. 

"  Macpherson  sent  these  in,  my  lord,"  he  says  in  a  sub- 
dued voice,  seeing  his  master  occupied. 

"  Hah  !  very  good.  But  wait — wait,"  mumbles  Branks- 
mere, who  is  still  scribbling  rapidly.  The  footman  stands 
immovable.  Presently  Branksmere  comes  to  a  dead  stop, 
and  flings  down  his  pen.  He  looks  up  at  the  ceiling  as  if 
for  inspiration,  and,  finally  seizing  the  pen  again,  he  signs 
his  name  at  the  end  of  the  paper.  He  had  meant  to  write 
the  formal  "  Branksmere,"  but  some  hidden  force  had  com- 
pelled him  to  inscribe  the  more  familiar — the  less  formal 
— "George."  He  dashes  it  off  in  a  tremendous  hurry  as 
though  scarcely  sure  of  himself  and  as  though  a  little 
ashamed,  and,  having  twisted  his  note  into  shape,  seals  it 
and  thrusts  it  hurriedly  into  the  white  bouquet  lying  on  the 
table  behind  him.  He  has  done  it  all  carelessly  and  openly, 
as  one  disdaining  any  pretence  at  secrecy.  It  is  but  a 
manner  of  sending  the  note  to  its  appointed  place.  The 
footman,  however,  staring  stolidly  through  the  lower  win- 
dow, sees  nothing  of  the  transaction,  and  is  even  blind  to 
the  presence  of  the  curtain-hidden  Madame,  who,  however, 
as  if  to  make  up  for  his  stupidity,  has  seen  a  good  deal  and 
understood  the  rest. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  161 

"Tell  Bridgman  to  place  that  in  her  ladyship's  room 
vvitli  my  compliments,"  says  Branksmere,  rousing  the  ru- 
minating footman  to  a  sense  of  his  presence.  He  points 
to  the  white  bouquet  as  he  speaks,  and  then  hastens  from 
the  library,  suddenly  remindful  of  some  small  duty  that 
should  have  been  performed  an  hour  ago. 

Madame,  coming  softly  from  behind  the  curtains  as 
though  she  had  just  entered  the  room  from  the  gardens 
beyond,  rather  startles  the  footman,  as,  with  the  lazy  ele- 
gance that  distinguishes  him.,  he  is  taking  up  the  flowers 
from  the  table. 

"An  !  Jenkins,  I  was  just  going  to  ring  for  you,"  she 
says,  pleasantly.  "Can  you  tell  me  where  his  lordship 
is?" 

"  He  was  'ere  this  very  moment,  m'm,  you've  missed  him 
by  a  chance,"  replies  Jenkins,  graciously,  who  is  a  very 
affable  young  man.  Madame  as  a  rule  stands  well  with  all 
the  servants,  being  smoothly  spoken  and  liberal.  "  'E  just 
went  out  as  you  come  in." 

"  Ah  !  unfortunate.  Have  you  any  idea  where  he  has 
gone  ? " 

"No,  m'm.  Seemed  in  a  'uriy,  I  thought.  'E  give  me 
these  flowers  to  give  Mrs.  Bridgman." 

"  For  Mrs.  Bridgman  ?  " 

"Yes,  m'm,  to  place  in  my  lady's  room,  and  then  went 
out  hisself,  quite  suddent  like.  Want  him,  m'm — shall  I 
see  where  'e  is  ?  " 

"  Yes.  Though  " — musingly — "  it  is  of  little  importance. 

Still Leave  the  flowers  there,  Jenkins,  until  your 

return,  and  bring  me  word  if  his  lordship  is  disengaged. 
But  do  not  disturb  him  if  he  is  busy.  Simply  bring  me 
word  where  he  now  is." 

"  Yes,  m'm."  Laying  the  flowers  once  again  upon  the 
table,  Jenkins  bows  himself  from  the  room  and  starts  on 
his  quest. 

Madame,  taking  up  the  bouquet,  deliberately  draws  from 
it  the  hidden  note,  and  with  unhesitating  fingers  breaks 
open  the  seal.  It  is  a  short  note,  and  not  very  carefully 
worded,  yet  its  contents  both  anger  and  perplex  her. 

"  I  shall  have  to  run  up  to  town  first  thing  in  the  morn- 
ing, but  hope  to  return  by  the  three  o'clock  train.  May  I 
hope  you  will  grant  me  an  interview.  There  are  a  few 
things  I  would  say  and  explain  to  you. 

"  Yours.  GEORGE." 
ii 


162  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

This  "  George  "  that  had  so  exercised  his  mind  causes  a 
throb  of  anger  in  the  breast  of  Madame.  So  !  He  has 
made  an  appointment  for  the  morrow.  An  appointment 
that  means  disclosure,  confidence — and  to  her,  Madame, 
ruin  !  So  long  as  the  secret  is  her'sand  his  alone  she  holds 
the  cards,  and  can  defy  even  his  wife  ;  but  that  on^e  dis- 
closed, her  reign  will  be  surely  over.  The  coward  !  The 
miscreant.  That  no  love  is  lost  between  him  and  his  cold, 
irresponsive  wife  is  believed  by  Madame,  and  yet  for  the 
sake  of  a  quiet  life  he  would  betray  all  !  Peace  is  his  cry, 
but  it  will  be  hardly  "  Peace  with  honor  ?  "  She  clinches 
her  teeth  passionately,  and  pushes  the  note  far  from  her 
across  the  ebony  table.  How  to  prevent  this  interview! 
How  to  shut  his  mouth  !  Her  very  soul  seems  set  upon  the 
accomplishment  of  this  ! 

To  burn  the  letter,  to  fling  it  into  those  tempting  greedy 
flames  over  there,  is  a  simple  thing,  but  there  is  danger  in 
it.  Nay  there  must  be — there  shall  be  a  less  clumsy  method 
of  gaining  her  ends.  Mechanically  she  folds  the  note  again, 
and,  lighting  a  taper,  seals  it  with  the  Branksmere  crest 
lying  on  the  table  before  her ;  she  even  slips  it  among 
the  flowers  again,  but  after  a  moment's  reflection  removes 
it  from  thence  and  places  it  in  her  pocket.  Yet  she  is  no 
nearer  a  solution  of  her  difficulty  now  than  she  was  before. 
How  dull  her  brain  is  to-day  !  Impatiently  she  pushes  back 
the  dark,  clustering  hair  from  her  brow.  She  is  so  lost  in 
thought,  that  presently  when  Captain  Staines  lays  his  hand 
upon  her  arm  she  starts  violently  and  turns  pale. 

"Dreaming?"  questions  he,  lightly.  "  Of  the  donor  of 
those  flowers  no  doubt." 

"You  are  right,"  with  a  curious  smile,  "though  the  do- 
nation is  not  to  me." 

"  No  ?  For  whom  then  ?  "  His  brow  has  grown  sud- 
denly black. 

"  For  Lady  Branksmere,  from  her  husband  !  "  For  the 
first  time  she  notices  that  he,  too,  is  carrying  a  very  exquis- 
ite bouquet  of  white  heath.  As  she  sees  this  she  breaks  into 
a  low  ironical  laugh. 

"  She  is  favored,"  she  says,  in  a  bitter  tone. 

"He  is  coming  out  in  a  new  light.  To  pose  as  the  at- 
tentive husband  is  quite  a  departure  for  him,"  says  Staines, 
with  a  wicked  sneer.  "  What  a  farce  it  all  is  !  Yet  she 
will  wear  his  flowers  in  preference  to  mine  to-night." 

"  I  hardly  see  how  she  dare  do  otherwise — if —  She 
lets  a  little  pause  drift  into  her  speech  that  is  apparently 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  163 

occupied  in  blowing  away  a  tiny  dust-speck  from  her  sleeve 
• — "  if  you  permit  it.  It  is  a  rather  early  stage  in  the  pro- 
ceedings for  her  to  defy  openly  her  husband,  and  that  thing 
so  far  more  important — the  world." 

"Perilously  early.  But  the  question  is,  not  whether  I 
will  permit  it,  but  how  to  prevent  it.  She  will,  as  you  say, 
not  dare  to  defy  her  world — she  will  wear  his  flowers." 

"  While  longing  for  yours  !  "  She  regards  him  keenly 
as  she  drops  this  sop  to  his  pride.  "  It  is  true.  She  will 
do  this  thing  if " 

"Well?  " 

"You  give  her  the  chance." 

"  Pah,  riddles  are  a  bore.  Speak  plainly  if  you  will 
speak,"  retorts  he,  rudely. 

"  Gently,  my  friend,"  says  Madame,  closing  her  eyes  a 
little.  "  There  is  nothing  to  be  gained  by  loud  speaking 
save  unenviable  attention.  What  I  would  say  to  you  is 
this.  How  marvellously  alike,  both  in  construction  and 
color,  are  these  two  charming  bouquets." 

In  truth  they  are  wonderfully  similar.  The  flowers  are 
not  the  same,  but  all  are  white  and  the  delicate  maiden  hair 
fern  that  springs  up  between  the  snowy  blossoms  of  both, 
renders  the  likeness  even  more  remarkable. 

"  I  see.  You  would  have  me  destroy  his,  and  send  mine 
in  his  name,"  says  Staines,  slowly. 

"Poof!  No!  We  must  think  of  something  less  heavy 
than  that.  It  is  a  poor  plot,"  returns  she,  with  quite  a  gav 
little  laugh.  "  Of  what  use  is  the  advance  of  intellect  of 
which  we  hear  so  much,  if  we  cannot  produce  a  safer  plan. 
And  besides,  touching  both  floral  offerings — "  it  would  be 
a  pity  surely  to  condemn  either  of  these  gracious  things  to 
an  ignominious  death." 

"  What  is  your  purpose,  then  ? "  demands  he,  sulkily. 

"Why,  to  exchange  them,  of  course,"  airily.  "  Fair  ex- 
change is  no  robbery.  It  defrauds  no  man.  And,  indeed, 
who  shall  say  that  your  flowers  do  riot  carry  away  the  palm 
of  beauty  !  "  She  leans  toward  him,  and  sinks  her  voice 
to  a  whisper.  "  Send  jiw/r.y  up  to  Lady  Branksmere  with 
— her  husband's  compliments,  and  trust  me  to  have  his  deliv- 
ered later  on  with  yours  !  It  sounds  a  pretty  complexity, 
does  it  not  ?  And  it  will  work  well,  believe  me." 

Staines  regards  her  fixedly. 

"You  would  place  me  a  good  deal  in  your  power,"  he 
says  at  last,  slowly. 

"Your  heart  fails  you  ?"  with  a  slight  shrug.     "Then 


164  LADY  BKANKSMERE. 

do  not  proceed,  I  advise  you.     Give  up  this  little  affair 
To  know  fear  is  to  insure  failure." 

"You  mistake  me.  I  do  not  fear  you,"  coldly.  "I  un- 
derstand myself  sufficiently  to  know  I  have  talent  enough 
to  swear  myself  out  of  any  difficulty  should  the  worst  come. 
What  I  am  now  pondering  is  the  possibility — not  of  my 
own  failure,  but  that  of  your  excellent  plan.  You  think 
she  will  select  the  flowers  she  believes  to  be  Branksmere's. 
But  how  if  after  all  she  should  elect  to  wear  mine  ?  That 
would  be  one  to  him,  and  check  to  me,  even  though  she 
did  not  mean  it." 

"She  will  not  defy  him  to  that  extent — yet!  I  tell  you 
my  scheme  will  not  fall  through,  and  will  injure  her  materi- 
ally in  his  eyes — Jenkins  will  be  back  directly — the  mes- 
sage I  gave  had  no  meaning  in  it.  Shall  I,"  indicating 
both  bouquets  by  a  graceful  wave  of  her  hand,  "  change 
them  ?" 

"As  an  experiment  it  will  be  amusing,"  returns  Staines, 
dryly.  Taking  up  his  own  flowers  he  lays  them  ready  for 
Jenkins'  hand. 

"  Do  not  let  him  see  the  others.  Servants  as  a  rule  are 
fatally  troublesome,"  says  Madame,  removing  the  delicate 
waxen  blossoms  that  Branksmere  had  ordered  with  such 
care,  and  dropping  them  contemptuously,  if  lightly,  into 
a  safe  corner,  where  they  lie  hidden  by  some  falling 
lace. 

She  has  said  nothing  to  him  about  the  extracted  letter. 
To  him,  as  to  all  others  save  Branksmere,  her  secret  is  un- 
known, unguessed.  But  her  mind  is  still  full  of  subtile 
workings  that  aim  at  the  prevention  of  to-morrow's  inter- 
view between  Branksmere  and  his  wife. 

"There  is  another  thing,"  she  says,  softly,  with  careful 
indifference,  as  Staines  turns  as  if  to  leave  her.  "  Some- 
thing I  learned  by  chance,  and  it  has  suddenly  occurred 
to  me,  may  be  of  some  small  use  to  you.  Having,"  with  a 
pale  smile,  "gone  into  partnership  with  you  in  this  matter, 
when  I  see  an  opportunity,  however  weak,  of  helping  you, 
I  make  a  point  of  remembering  it."  She  pauses,  still  smil- 
ing as  though  for  some  acknowledgment  from  him,  but 
he  betrays  neither  gratitude  nor  any  other  feeling. 

"  Go  on,"  he  says  stolidly.  Plainly  he  is  unimpressed 
by  her  profession  of  solicitude  for  his  welfare. 

"  Branksmere  has  written  to  his  wife  demanding,  of 
rather  entreating,  an  interview  with  her  on  the  morrow." 

"  For    what    purpose  ?      Is   it    a   quarrel  ? "    asks    he, 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  165 

sharply.  She  has  succeeded  at  last  in  thoroughly  rousing 
him. 

"  Far  from  that.  A  reconciliation  rather.  A  meeting 
that  threatens  to  be  full  of  domestic  tenderness,  and  will 
upset  your  arrangements  cleverly.  Ha!  You  see  how  he 
dreads  your  influence  over  her  already,  when  he  can  con- 
descend to  beseech  her." 

"  I  wish  I  was  as  sure  of  that  as  you  seem  to  be,"  re- 
turns he,  with  a  grim  smile. 

"  He  has  to  go  to  town  by  the  early  train  in  the  morn- 
ing, and  has  asked  her  to  grant  him  a  private  audience  on 
his  return." 

'  When  will  that  be  ?  " 

'  Three  o'clock." 

'  And  she — what  does  she  say  ?" 

'  Nothing,  as  yet." 

'  She  hesitates,  then,"  eagerly. 

'  Not  so  much  that,  as .  The  fact  is,"  says  Madame, 

unfurling  in  an  indolent  fashion  the  huge  black  fan  hang- 
ing from  her  waist,  "  she  has  not  yet  seen  that  letter  to 
which  I  have  alluded." 

Staines  regards  her  with  an  unfeigned  curiosity  that  is 
yet  largely  mingled  with  admiration. 

"  And  you  have  ! "  he  remarks,  dryly.  "  Keep  your  own 
counsel  about  that,  by  all  means,  but  give  me  a  hint  or 
two  that  may  still  serve — us.  You  have  reminded  me  that 
the  victory  of  one  means  victory  for  both." 

"  Hardly — but  I  am  content  to  take  my  chance." 

"She  knows  nothing  yet,  then,  of  his  desire  for  this 
interview  !  And  he  has  appointed  three  o'clock  to-morrow 
for  it  to  take  place  ?  Is  this  how  the  matter  stands  ?" 

"Yes,  and  if  by  some  lucky  chance  she  should  fail  to 
keep  this  appointment — how  would  it  be,  then  ?" 

"  You  give  me  food  for  thought." 

"  Digest  it  then.  If  she  should  fail,  let  me  remind  you 
that  probably  a  reconciliation  would  be  further  off  than 
ever." 

"  Get  that  letter  destroyed.  If  she  knows  nothing  of 
its  contents  she  cannot  keep  the  appointment." 

"  As  I  hinted  to  you  before,  my  friend,  you  grow  clum- 
sy. Your  constructions  are  too  crude.  A  letter  is  a  tangi- 
ble thing — when  lost — which  is  very  seldom  in  these  days 
of  admirable  management — one  cries  aloud  for  it.  One 
demands  restitution.  For  the  destroyer  it  grows  awkward. 
No  ;  better  the  letter  should  be  delivered  just  a  little  too 


166  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

late.  That  rests  with  me.  With  you  it  remains  to  see  that 
she  is  nowhere  within  the  castle-grounds  at  the  time 
named." 

"  Three,  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  Have  you  thought  it  out  ?  " 

"Give  me  time,"  smiling.  "At  present  I  can  only 
assure  you  that  whoever  fails  to-morrow  it  shall  not  be  I." 

He  lays  his  finger  on  his  lip,  and  disappears  through 
the  window  into  the  gardens,  as  Jenkins'  returning  foot- 
steps sound  in  the  hall. 

"  My  lord  has  gone  up  to  one  of  the  home  farms,  m'm, 
with  Mr.  Donaldson,"  he  informs  Madame,  regretfully. 
Mr.  Donaldson  is  the  Scotch  steward. 

"  Very  well.  It  scarcely  matters.  Take  these  flowers 
up  now  to  Lady  Branksmere's  maid." 

As  she  gives  them  to  him  she  watches  his  face  narrowly 
as  though  to  suspect  any  suspicion  or  surprise  in  it.  Her 
espionage  goes  unrewarded.  Mr.  Jenkins'  countenance 
continues  what  Nature  intended  it  to  be,  a  most  satisfac- 
tory blank.  To  the  dullest  observer  it  would  be  plain  that 
he  has  noticed  no  change  in  the  bouquet,  and  that  one 
bunch  of  white  flowers  is  to  him  quite  the  same  thing  as 
another.  He  departs  with  a  decorous  languor  of  gait  to 
Mrs.  Bridgman,  and  desires  her  to  lay  the  fragrant  heaths 
upon  my  lady's  table  with  "my  lord's  compliments." 

Some  hours  later  when  Muriel  is  sitting  in  her  bedroom 
before  her  glass,  letting  her  maid  put  some  finishing 
touches  to  a  toilette  of  white  and  gold  that  already  is  per- 
fect beyond  description — a  second  bouquet  is  brought  to 
her  with  Captain  Staines'  kind  regards.  A  glance  tells 
her  that  it,  too,  is  white,  and  pure  and  fragrant  as  that  un- 
welcome one  that  had  met  her  eyes  on  first  entering  her 
room  this  evening. 

"  No,  not  there !  "  she  cries  a  little  sharply,  as  Bridgman 
would  have  placed  the  new  gift  next  to  Lord  Branksmere's 
flowers  upon  the  small  buhl  table  near  the  screen,  and 
presently,  dismissing  her  woman,  she  leans  back  in  her 
chair,  and  taking  up  both  bouquets  examines  them  with  a 
strange  tightening  at  her  throat. 

Branksmere's  delicate  offering,  following  as  suddenly  as 
it  did  upon  the  bitter  scene  that  had  passed  between  him 
and  her,  had  roused  within  her  a  very  storm  of  passionate 
indignation.  It  had  come  without  a  word,  without  so 
much  as  even  a  poor  message  ;  had  been  flung  to  her  as  a 
mere  stop-gap.  During  that  last  terrible  interview,  in 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  167 

which  she  had  imperiously  demanded  from  him  an  ex- 
planation of  Madame's  words,  "  Ask  Branksmere,"  he  had 
almost  promised  her  one,  and  now  these  flowers  had  been 
sent  to  fill  its  place.  These  dumb  things  that  cannot  even 
by  their  beauty  heal  the  burning  thoughts,  the  cruel  sus- 
picions, that  hurt  and  tear  her  breast. 

She  had  flung  them  from  her  in  a  very  transport  of 
fury,  as  her  anger  waxed  hotter  within  her,  and  then,  with 
a  strange  revulsion  of  feeling,  had  picked  them  up  again, 
and  pulled  out  their  best  leaves  and  laid  them  tenderly,  if 
coldly,  on  the  table.  What  if,  after  all,  she  had  been  mis- 
taken. If!  A  sorry  hope.  She  had  cherished  it  for  a 
while — an  inconsequent  five  minutes  or  so — and  then  had 
laughed  at  herself  for  thus  harboring  a  sentiment  so 
entirely  without  life.  Would  all  her  bosom's  warmth  re- 
create it  now  ?  And  still  it  returns  again  and  again  with 
foolish  persistence.  Oh  !  to  be  sure — only  sure — one  way 
or  the  other! 

As  Staines'  flowers  now  lie  side  by  side  with  Branks- 
mere's,  where  she  has  laid  them  down,  after  a  little  strug- 
gle with  her  better  self,  an  expression  that  suggests  re- 
venge darkens  her  face.  Here  seems  to  be  given  her  the 
chance  of  disdaining  her  husband's  puerile  attempt  at 
patching  up  an  injustice,  already  too  far  gone  to  admit  of 
any  mending.  To  discard  his  flowers,  to  openly  ignore 
them  and  then  give  honor  to  his  rival's  !  A  sweet  revenge 
indeed.  She  shivers  a  little  as  that  word  "  rival  "  forces 
itself  upon  her  ;  but  she  will  not  turn  aside  from  it,  or 
give  a  decenter  name  to  her  meaning.  With  a  cold  sense 
of  self-contempt,  she  declares  openly  to  herself,  that  this 
lover  of  hers  in  the  fond,  careless,  irrecoverable  past,  is  her 
lover  still. 

She  taps  the  table  impatiently  with  her  fingers,  and  a 
quick  frown  disfigures  her  brow.  Once  again  she  con- 
centrates her  thoughts  upon  the  question — which  of  these 
bouquets  shall  she  carry  to-night?  A  great  desire  to 
slight  Branksmere,  to  betray  publicly  her  scorn  and  loath- 
ing of  him,  is  great  within  her  ;  but  within  her,  too,  is  a 
nervous  shrinking  from  the  act  itself.  To  abase  him  is 
one  thing,  but  to  uphold  another — 

Again  that  absurd  doubt  cries  aloud  for  house-room  in 
her  heart.  It  will  not  be  killed.  At  times  it  may  lie 
scotched,  but  always  life  lingers  in  it.  There  is  no  love 
for  her  husband  to  guide  or  restrain  the  wayward  work- 
ings of  her  soul,  but  yet  some  instinct  warns  her  that  his 


168  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

dark  determined  face  hides  no  evil,  and  that  his  eyes  have 
never  yet  fallen  before  hers.  She  is  but  a  woman  too, 
and  her  good  name  is  dear  to  her.  As  yet  no  touch  of 
blight  has  come  to  it  ;  and — and  there  is  always  Margery, 
and  pale  Angelica,  and  the  boys,  and  the  children — the 
pretty,  fat,  innocent  twins  ! 

When  she  gets  to  this  point  in  her  miserable  waverings, 
she  clinches  her  teeth  and  draws  her  breath  hard.  Rising 
tumultuously  to  her  feet,  she  snatches  up  the  flowers  that 
she — alas  ! — believes  to  be  Branksmere's,  and,  with  white 
lips  and  trembling  fingers,  goes  down-stairs. 

The  other  carriages  have  started  ten  minutes  ago.  Lady 
Anne  and  Lord  Primrose  have  waited  to  accompany  her. 
With  a  little  hurried  apology  for  the  delay  she  has  caused, 
and  for  which  Primrose  has  been  devoutly  blessing  her, 
they,  too,  step  into  the  waiting  brougham,  and  are  driven 
toward  the  town,  the  lights  of  which  can  be  seen  gleaming 
through  the  tall  lime-trees  in  the  eastern  walk. 


CHAPTER  XXVII. 

"And  there's  a  lust  in  may  no  charm  can  tame, 
Of  loudly  publishing  our  neighbor's  shame." 

NIGHT  is  waning  ;  already  day's  footsteps  lie  upon  the 
border  of  its  kingdom.  The  stars,  as  though  in  defiance 
of  their  coming  foe,  are  shining  with  even  a  keener  bril- 
liance than  distinguished  them  an  hour  ago.  The  ball  is 
at  its  height ;  the  waltzes  are  growing  slower  and  more 
languorous  ;  the  band  is  at  last  becoming  impressed  by 
the  sad  plaints  it  has  been  holding  forth  so  long  ;  it  be- 
gins to  excel  itself — to  become,  indeed,  quite  saturated 
with  melancholy. 

It  has  failed,  however  to  impress  Margery  Daryl  witli  a 
sense  of  its  own  sentimental  sorrow.  She  is  laughing 
gayly  at  this  moment  at  the  end  of  the  room,  surrounded 
by  quite  a  little  group  of  admirers,  among  whom  are  con- 
spicuous Curzon  Bellew — a  man  from  Loming  Barracks, 
and  little  Mr.  Goldie,  the  curate.  The  County  Ball  is 
not  only  a  fashionable  but  a  very  sociable  affair,  to  which 
both  the  Rectors  and  the  Curates  of  the  town  around  are 
permitted  to  accompany  their  womankind  without  a  rebuff 
being  delivered  to  them  next  day  in  the  morning  papers. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  169 

Mr.  Goldie  has  no  Avomankind  of  any  description,  but 
that  hardly  matters,  and  is  quite  looked  over  in  the 
general  feeling  of  hilarity  and  good  fellowship  that  at- 
tends on  this  yearly  re-union  of  the  great  and  small. 
"We  shall  just  drop  in  for  a  moment  or  two  to  get  a 
glimpse  of  our  friends,"  the  rector  is  wont  to  say  annually, 
in  his  round,  jovial  voice,  but  Mr.  Goldie's  moment  or 
two  has  grown  into  hours,  so  loth  is  he  to  drag  himself 
away  from  the  fair  Margery. 

She  is  looking  more  than  ordinarily  charming  to-night, 
in  the  pretty  gown  that  Willie  had  given  her.  She  is  radi- 
ant, happy — many  triumphs  have  fallen  to  her  share, 
many  scalps  to  her  innocent  bow  that  is  wrought  curi- 
ously, of  sunny  smiles  and  little  speeches  half  shy  and 
half  coquettish,  and  glances  from  two  very  wonderful 
eyes — deep,  clear  e'yes — that  brighten  and  glow  and  soften 
as  if  by  magic,  sweet  eyes  that : 

"  Smile  constantly,  as  if  they  in  discreetness, 
Kept  the  secret  of  a  happy  dream  she  did  not  care  to  speak." 

Peter,  too,  is  in  high  feather  ;  and,  having  given  him- 
self into  the  keeping  of  Mr.  Paulyn,  is  having  quite  a  gay 
old  time  of  it  among  the  prettiest  girls  in  the  room.  The 
Hon.  Tommy  seems  determined  his  protege  shall  make  a 
night  of  it,  and  what  between  the  champagne  and  the 
still  more  exhilarating  glances  of  lovely  eyes,  and  the 
many  incipient  heartaches  he  is  enjoying,  Peter  may 
honestly  be  said  to  be  revelling. 

"Your  brother  seems  to  me  to  be — er — going  it,"  says 
Halkett,  who  just  now  is  among  pretty  Miss  Daryl's  fol- 
lowers. 

"Ah  !  Peter  was  '  born  in  a  merry  hour  ! '  "  returns  she, 
laughing.  "  Mark  his  increasing  amiability,"  looking  at 
her  brother  with  the  liveliest  admiration,  as  she  sees  him 
paying  open  court  to  a  young  woman  of  the  Roman  nosed 
type,  who  seems  a  good  deal  astonished,  but  decidedly 
taken  with  his  boyish  gayety. 

"His  astounding  effrontery,  you  mean,"  corrects  Hal- 
kett, mildly.  "  I  myself  with  all  my  seasoning  would  not 
take  a  small  fortune  to  crack  jokes  with  Lady  Emma 
Forbes,  which  it  occurs  to  me  is  what  he  is  now  doing.  I 
wonder  where  that  boy  expects  to  go  to.  Watch  him,  he 
doesn't  look  in  the  least  frightened." 

"The  other  way  round  rather,"  says  Branksmere,  who 
has  just  joined  them,  with  a  little  smile. 


170  LADY  BKANKSMERE. 

"  It  is  cruel.  It  makes  me  feel  old,"  sighs  Halkett, 
mournfuUy.  "  I  can't  keep  up  with  the  rising  generation  ; 
already  they  distance  me."  He  waves  his  hand  toward 
the  animated  Peter.  "  Last  time  I  spent  five  minutes 
alone  in  Lady  Emma's  company  was  in  July,  '84.  It  was 
an  exceptionably  warm  evening,  I  remember,  yet  when 
those  dire  five  minutes  came  to  an  end  I  was  obliged  to 
fly  to  the  nearest  kitchen  fire  to  try  and  impart  some  heat 
into  my  chilled  marrow.  Yet  there  is  the  valiant  Peter  in 
the  same  situation,  warm  and  comfortable." 

"  More  than  that.  Actually  enjoying  himself.  Now  he 
is  laughing.  And — and  so  is  Lady  Emma,  by  Jove.  See?" 

"Laughing!  Oh,  no,  I  won't  believe  that.  Thanks, 
no,  I  had  rather  not  look  and  be  convinced.  Laughing  ! 
Lady  Emma  laughing !  Miss  Daryl,  this  is  our  waltz,  I 
think.  Will  you  kindly  take  me  away?" 

She  does  so.  And  passing  by  Mrs.  Amyot,  who  is  hold- 
ing a  court  of  her  own,  attracts  her  attention. 

"Pretty  thing,  that  Margery  Daryl  is,"  she  says.  "  Soft 
as  a  crayon  sketch.  She  always  seems  to  me  the  very  in- 
carnation of  youth  and  spring,  and  freshness  and — er — all 
that  sort  of  thing." 

"You  are.  growing  amazingly  fresh  and  youthful  your- 
self," whispers  Mrs.  Vyner,  mischievously.  "  What  an 
outburst !  What  ravishing  sentiment !  Is  all  that  the  re- 
sult of  Halkett's  dancing  with  her?" 

"  Margery  is  charming — but  not  to  be  named  in  the 
same  day  with  her  sister,  for  all  that,"  remarks  Mr.  Paulyn, 
with  conviction. 

"  No  ?  Well,  it  would  ill  become  me  to  dispute  it. 
Lady  Branksmere  is  certainly  lovely." 

"To  a  fault,"  finishes  Mrs.  Vyner,  sweetly. 

"  That  expresses  it  in  a  nutshell,"  says  Primrose,  laugh- 
ing. "  She  is  beautiful,  we  can  all  see,  and  yet — is  she  ? 
One  hardly  knows,  after  all.  I  confess,  at  all  events,  it  is 
a  beauty  that  puzzles  me.  I  am  Goth  enough  not  to  be 
•able  to  understand  it.  She  is  too  volcanic — too  repressed. 
One  is  always  wondering  when  the  denouement  will 
be." 

"Soon,  I  shouldn't  wonder!"  lisps  Mrs.  Vyner,  with 
the  most  meaningless  air  in  the  world. 

"  It  will  be  curious  when  it  comes.  Those  intense  look- 
ing women  are  generally  very  trying — very.  One  cannot 
conquer  a  natural  anxiety  to  know  if  the  waking  up  wiH 
produce  total  extinction,  or  a  new  and  healthy  life." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


171 


"  Social  extinction,  did  you  say?"  asks  Mrs.  Vyner,  art- 
lessly. 

"  No  ;  total." 

"  It  is  possible  to  go  too  far,  Louisa,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot, 
in  a  low  tone,  casting-  a  warning  glance  at  her  friend. 

"  Just  what  I  think,"  returns  tiiat  irrepressible  person, 
unmoved,  and  in  a  clear  voice  that  has  lost  a  little  of  its 
lisp  for  the  occasion.  "  Much  too  far.  My  very  own  sen- 
timents, I  assure  you.  All  !  talk  of  the  dev —  an  angel,  I 
mean — there  goes  Lady  Branksmere." 

"  How  that  white  and  gold  suits  her,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot, 
admiringly.  "White  seems  a  favorite  of  hers." 

"  So  does  Captain  Staines,"  laughs  Mrs.  Vyner,  de- 
murely, pointing  to  Muriel's  companion. 

"Funny  selection,"  exclaims  a  tall  man  of  the  lanky 
order,  whose  hair  is  a  source  of  undying  annoyance  to  his 
friends  and  his  coat  collars,  and  whose  general  appear- 
ance is  a  cross  between  a  Methodist  parson  and  an  artist. 
"  I  should'call  Staines  ugly  myself." 

"Oh,  no!  handsome  rather." 

"  I  agree  with  Varnyshe,  ugly,  ugly  decidedly,"  exclaims 
Lord  Primrose,  with  emphasis.  "All  the  outer  veneer  he 
can  put  on  does  not  blind  me  to  the  defects  beneath." 
He  puts  his  glass  aimlessly  in  his  eye,  and  then  drops  it 
again,  and  altogether  looks  as  disturbed  in  spirit  as  a  lit- 
tle, plain,  good-humored  man  can  look. 

"Ah!  Lord  Primrose!"  murmurs  Mrs.  Amyot,  leaning 
back  to  look  up  at  him  out  of  her  saucy  eyes.  "  You 
grow  severe  !  I  shudder  to  think  what  will  become  of  me 
when  you  once  see  through  my  veloutine." 

Her  short,  upper  lip  curls  slowly  in  a  mischievous  smile, 
and  knowing  herself  a  pet  of  his,  she  makes  at  him  a  little 
inoue. 

"You  are  a  hypocrite  to  your  veloutine,"  returns  the 
small  man,  gallantly.  "You  pretend  it  is  of  service  to  you 
when  it  isn't !  "  Mrs.  Amyot  is  delighted. 

"  Ah !  Primrose ! "  cries  she,  patting  the  edge  of  the 
ottoman,  "  you  shall  have  a  share  of  my  seat  for  that. 
Come,  take  it.  I  know  you  are  longing  for  the  repose 
Mr.  Varnyshe  is  so  fond  of  telling  us  about." 

Indeed,  Mr.  Varnyshe  has  been  waxing  as  eloquent  over 
his  favorite  theme  as  his  brains  will  permit,  with  Lady 
Branksmere  as  subject. 

"  The  general  impression  is  that  of  rest,  but  one  is  hardly 
safe  in  believing  it.  Her  eyes,  the  petulant  under  lip, 


1 72  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

mock   at  it.     At  the  first  glance  she  is  an  exquisite  '  still 

life,'  if  you  will,  but  with  a  storm  brooding  on  the  distant 

hill-tops." 

•    The  artist  sniffs  ecstatically,  and  then  blows  a  sonorous 

blast  upon  his  poky  nose. 

"Would  you  have  them  impolite?  How  do  you  treat 
those  with  whom  you  are  on  friendly  terms  ? " 

"  Ah  !  you  should  know  !"  murmurs  she,  reproachfully, 
glancing  up  at  Paulyn,  who  is  the  speaker,  and  who  forth- 
with breaks  into  an  irresistible  laugh.  "  I  don't  scowl  at 
them,  at  all  events,  behind  their  backs.  And  I  have  re- 
marked that  Captain  Staines  looks  as  black  as  an  Ethio- 
pian when  Mrs.  Daryl's  eyes  are  off  him." 

"  Poor  soul !  "  says  Primrose,  reflectively.  "  I  fear  he  is 
not  long  for  this  world.  Hanwell  will  be  enriched  by  him 
before  many  months  go  by." 

"Ever  hear  any  fellow  talk  of  one's  inside  like  him?" 
bursts  out  Mr.  Paulyn,  indignantly,  who  perhaps  has  not 
altogether  grasped  his  meaning.  "  Doocid  odd /call  it, 
and  before  ladies,  too.  One  would  think  he  was  the  private 
possessor  of  a  telescope  that  could  see  into  a  fellow,  eh  ? " 

"  Dwell  on  his  many  inches  and  be  lenient,"  says  Mrs. 
Amyot,  when  she  has  laughed  a  little.  "  And  bring  to  mind 
at  the  same  time  your  Bacon  :  '  My  Lord  St.  Albans  said 
that  nature  did  never  put  her  precious  jewels  into  a  garret 
four  storeys  high,  and  therefore  that  exceeding  tall  men  had 
ever  very  empty  heads.'  Poor  Mr.  Varnyshe  !  One  feels 
for  him  after  that.  And  it  isn't  my  abuse,  mind  you.  I 
should  be  afraid  to  criticise  anyone  so  many  miles  above 
me." 

"  Mrs.  Vyner,  we  miss  you.  You  have  not  spoken  to  us 
for  quite  five  minutes.  Your  thoughts  ?  Give  us  those  at 
least." 

"  Alas  !  I  never  learned  how  to  think.  Mrs.  Amyot  will 
tell  you  so,"  lisps  she,  mournfully.  "  I  was  merely  looking 
at  the  little  American  woman  with  the  robin's  eyes.  The 
Daryl's  sister-in-law,  I  mean." 

"  See  how  she  watches  Lady  Branksmere's  every  move- 
ment," exclaims  Mrs.  Amyot,  amused. 

"  Or  is  it  Captain  Staines  ?  I  am  so  wretchedly  short- 
sighted," protests  Mrs.  Vyner,  regretfully.  "  Do  you 
know  I  often  wonder,  what  it  is  Captain  Staines  can  possi- 
bly have  done  to  her,  or  she  to  him  ;  they  treat  each  other 
with  such  a  rigorous  politeness  when  compelled  to  speak." 

"  If  Lady  Branksmere  is  to  be  bracketed  as  a  '  still  life, 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  173 

how  may  Miss  Daryl  be  designated?"  asks  Primrose 
blandly.  "  As  '  an  interior  ? ' ' 

"  Yes,  yes.  Very  aptly  put.  And  what  a  perfect  '  inte- 
rior !  "  All  love  and  peace  and  grace  ! " 

"You  admire  Miss  Daryl  the  most,  then,"  says  Mrs. 
Amyot,  smiling. 

"Ah  !  Yes  !  "  responds  the  lanky  man,  with  a  loud  sigh, 
that  speaks  no  doubt  of  the  full  heart.  He  moves  away, 
his  hand  thrust  in  an  Irvingian  mode  into  his  breast,  with 
the  elbow  well  prominent,  and  strides  into  space  with  fly- 
ing locks. 

"  No  wonder  !  They  are  very  pretty  eyes.  I  suppose 
he  would  rather  have  them  on  him." 

"That  I  question." 

"  Fancy  your  remarking  anything  ?  "  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  in 
a  tone  that  might  be  termed  satirical. 

"  That  surprises  you  ?  Do  you  know,  of  late,"  ventures 
Mrs.  Vyner,  meekly,  "it  has  occurred  to  me  that,  perhaps, 
I  look  more  stupid  than  I  really  am  ?" 

She  glances  nervously,  appealingly  around  her. 

"  You  must  not  let  that  fear  trouble  you  again,"  whis- 
pers her  friend  gayly.  "//  isn't  true  !  " 

Mrs.  Vyner  laughs. 

"  Anybody  got  their  eyes  on  Aunt  Selina,"  exclaims  Mr. 
Paulyn  at  this  moment.  "  If  so,  he  or  she  will  be  richly 
rewarded.  Such  spite !  such  venom  could  hardly  be  ex- 
celled !  I  like  a  thing  well  done,  I  confess,  be  it  good  or 
evil.  See  how  she  glowers  at  Muriel.  She  seems  to  have 
made  quite  a  bete  noire  of  her  of  late.  Why  ?  I  wonder. 
What's  she  been  doing  ?  " 

"That  is  jugt  what  we  all  want  to  know,"  sighs  Mrs. 
Vyner,  mildly. 

"  My  gentle  Aunt  has  her  eye  on  her  to-night,  with  a 
vengeance  at  all  events,"  says  Mr.  Paulyn.  ''And  what 
an  eye  it  is  !  As  a  boy  it  used  to  regular  crumple  me  up, 
and  even  now  it  takes  the  curl  out  of  me.  Thank  good- 
ness she  has  taken  up  a  new  hobby.  As  a  rule  that  eye 
was  dedicated  to  a  discovery  of  my  delinquencies." 

The  Hon.  Tommy  heaves  a  sigh  of  deepest  relief. 

"  I'm  very  sorry  if  I  offend  you,  Mr.  Paulyn,"  murmurs 
Mrs.  Vyner  with  pretty  impertinence.  "But  I  must  always 
regard  it  as  a  personal  injury  that  that  old  lady,  your  Aunt, 
ever  saw  the  light.  Why  don't  you  renounce  her?" 

"'  Twouldn't  have  done  you  a  bit  of  good  if  she'd  been 
born  blind,"  returns  Mr.  Paulyn,  gloomily,  pretending  to 


174  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

misunderstand  her.  "  She'd  have  found  you  out  all  the 
same  !  " 

The  insouciance  of  this  remark  is  hardly  to  be  surpassed, 
and  being  well  understanded  of  the  people  round  is  irre- 
sistible. Mrs.  Amyot,  bending  over  her  fan,  gives  way  to 
silent  mirth. 

"You  were  right  in  what  you  said  yesterday,"  she  whis- 
pers to  Mrs.  Vyner.  "  He  is  a  nice  boy." 

"  Perhaps  if  she  hadn't  been  born  at  all  it  would  have 
simplified  matters,"  says  Mrs.  Vyner,  with  some  faint  as- 
perity. "  She  is  a  living  nightmare." 

"  Puts  on  her  clothes  with  a  pitchfork,  and  is  never 
happy  unless  she  is  taking  away  somebody's  character — 
shocking  habits,  both,"  murmurs  Mrs.  Amyot. 

"  Shocking,  indeed,"  agrees  Halkett,  who  has  just  come 
up  behind  them,  glancing  at  her  with  meaning. 

"  Ah,  you  !  "  she  cries,  lightly.  "  Well,  Mentor,  and 
where  have  you  been  all  this  longtime  ?  Instructing  some 
new  pupil,  perchance.  We  have  been  discussing  Lady 
Branksmere's  charms  in  comparison  with  those  of  her 
sister.  I  am  prejudiced  in  favor  of  Margery,  I  own,  but 
public  opinion  gives  the  apple  to  Lady  Branksmere.  She 
is  the  acknowledged  beauty  of  the  room  to-night.  Yes,  Mr. 
Paulyn,  you  were  right  when  you  said  Margery's  perfec- 
tions were  eclipsed  by  those  of  her  sister." 

"Perhaps  it  will  add  a  little  additional  interest  to  that 
remark  of  mine  to  know  that  it  was  not  made  in  allusion 
to  Lady  Branksmere  at  all,"  returns  Mr.  Paulyn,  pleasantly, 
"but  to  Margery's  younger  sister — Angelica." 

"  They  are  a  handsome  lot,  those  Daryls,"  says  Primrose. 
"  Beauty  seems  to  run  riot  among  them." 

" And  virtue"  supplements  Mrs.  Vyner,  sweetly.  As 
she  says  this  with  an  ingenuous  smile,  and  quite  a  generous 
air,  Lady  Branksmere,  with  Staines  still  beside  her,  passes 
by  them,  and,  slipping  through  an  open  window,  disappears 
into  the  mystic  recesses  of  the  night. 


CHAPTER  XXVIII. 

"  My  soul  lies  hid  in  shades  of  grief." 

UPON  the  broad,  stone-flagged  terrace,  great  tubs  of 
odorous  evergreens  are  dotted  here  and  there,  casting  their 
perfumes  into  the  dewy  darkness.  A  little  harmless  baby 


LADY  BRANKSMERP:.  175 

shower  had  fallen  from  heaven  about  an  hour  ago,  and 
still  the  large  shining  leaves  are  wet  with  it,  and  sparkle 
softly  in  the  moonbeams.  Up  above,  the  pale  drifting 
clouds  have  been  scattered  by  a  wandering  wind,  and  now 
the  Queen  of  Night  is  sailing  calm  and  tranquil  in  the 
blue  ether. 

Down  in  the  gardens  the  tall  white  lilies  are  nodding 
their  drowsy  heads,  and  the  sweet  trailing  roses  are  cast- 
ing shadows  on  the  closely  shaven  sward.  The  air  seems 
burdened  with  the  warm  scent  of  them.  Pale  disks  of 
light  are  lying  in  soft  patches  on  the  mossy  turf,  and  now 
and  again  a  sleepy  caw  from  the  distant  rookery  in  Branks- 
mere  Woods,  that  border  on  the  town,  is  all  that  comes  to 
break  the  unutterable  calm  of  the  hour. 

The  tender-colored  night  draws  hardly  breath.  It  seems 
more  like  a  sweet  twilight  than  the  soft  bordering  on  the 
lines  of  a  new  day,  and  through  the  scented  darkness  a 
little  loving  breeze  is  rushing  \vith  gentle  petulance. 

Far  beyond  again  lies  the  fountain,  its  sprays  rising  and 
falling  in  a  lazy,  musical  fashion,  suggestive  of  the  thought 
that  it  would  fain  slumber,  but  is  driven  into  action  by 
some  tyrannical  Pixie,  lying  laughing  in  its  basin  where 
the  big  white  flowers  are  glistening  among  their  swaying 
leaves.  Muriel  coming  to  a  standstill  beside  it,  seats  her- 
self dreamily  upon  the  marble  edge,  and,  dreamily  still, 
pulls  off  her  glove  and  lets  her  fingers  play  among  the 
opening  buds  that  lie  on  the  water's  bosom. 

Staines  seating  himself  beside  her  watches  her  with  a 
curious  intentness.  Never  before  perhaps  has  he  felt  so 
keenly  the  power  and  perfection  of  her  beauty.  The 
mystic  hour — the  soft  breathing  of  the  night- — the  sense  of 
farness,  only  rendered  more  acute  by  the  swelling  and 
dying  of  the  slumberous  waltz  that  comes  to  them  every 
now  and  then  upon  the  midnight  wind — all  tend  to  bring 
passion  into  life.  It  seems  impossible  that  anyone  should 
be  awake  save  they  two  !  All  the  world  might  indeed  be 
dead,  and  that  sweet  mournful  music  their  requiem,  with 
only  two  to  hear  it ! 

No  human  voice  comes  to  them  ;  no  whisper,  only  the 
sighing  of  the  rustling  grasses,  and  the  fond  cooing  of  the 
wood  doves.  The  perfume  of  the  lilies  is  wafted  to  them, 
and  s/ie,  fairer  than  any  lily,  is  sitting  motionless  upon  the 
marble  basin,  her  head  half  turned  aside. 

Her  white  gown,  with  its  touches  of  gold,  is  making  a 
vivid  blot  against  the  dark  background  of  firs.  The  moon- 


176  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

beams  have  descended,  and  caught  her,  and  are  encircling 
her  with  their  white  flames,  playing  among  the  folds  of 
her  clinging  gown,  and  glancing  off  the  gems  that  deck 
her. 

"Diamonds  to  fasten  the  hair  and  diamonds  to  fasten  the  sleeves. 
Laces  to  drip  from  their  rays,  like  a  powder  of  snow  from  the  eaves. " 

Presently,  as  though  the  silence  has  reached  her  even 
through  the  armor  of  strange  thoughts  that  have  clothed 
her,  she  lifts  her  head  and  looks  round  her  with  an  air  of 
one  suddenly  startled. 

"  How  apart  we  seem  to  be,"  she  says  discontentedly. 

"  I  am  glad  of  it,"  returns  Staines,  in  a  manner  hurried, 
impulsive.  It  seems  to  attract  her. 

"You  are  changed,"  she  says,  leaning  forward  and  re- 
garding him  curiously.  "  What  is  it  ?  The  moonlight  ? 
It  always  makes  me,  too,  long  to  be  alone  !  " 

She  sighs  as  one  waking  from  a  rapture — and  a  certain 
little  sense  of  vague  but  joyful  rest  that  had  sweetened 
her  lips,  flies.  She  looks  once  again  cold,  loveless,  im- 
passive. 

He  checks  the  eager  words  he  would  have  uttered,  and 
instead,  stooping  toward  her,  points  to  the  white  flowers 
she  holds. 

"  I  hardly  dared  hope  so  much." 

"  So  much  ?  " 

"  That  you  would  wear  my  flowers." 

"  You  mistake,"  she  says,  coldly.  "  These  are  not  yours. 
You  will  understand,"  quickly,  with  icy  courtesy,  "  that  I 
thought  yours  charming;  that  I  was  much  gratified;  but 
I  have  not  used  them." 

"  How  then  ?  "  with  an  admirably  puzzled  air,  "  you  re- 
ceived two  bouquets  the  same  ?" 

"  In  effect,  yes.  But  the  flowers  are  different.  Yours 
were  lilies,  if  you  remember." 

"Pardon  me,"  smiling  pleasantly,  "mine  were  heath. 
Whose  the  lilies  were,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  conjecture,  but 
certainly  my  bouquet  was  composed  of  heath." 

Lady  Branksmere  flushes  slowly.  She  feels  perplexed, 
uncertain.  Had  she  made  a  mistake  ?  Surely  Bridgman 
had  given  these  flowers  last,  with  his  lordship's  compli- 
ments. A  sudden  frown  wrinkles  her  forehead. 

"I  do  not  comprehend,"  she  says.  "Of  course  there  is 
a  mistake  somewhere.  But,"  steadily,  "I  repeat,  I  had 
no  idea  I  was  wearing  the  flowers  you  so  kindly  sent  me." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  177 

"  Ah !  That  knowledge  I  liave  taken  to  heart.  Pray 
do  not  be  afraid  1  shall  imagine  otherwise,"  returns  he, 
with  a  touch  of  pride  that  is  yet  sadly  humble.  "  I  must 
express  my  regret  that  that  sorry  gift  of  mine,"  glancing 
at  the  flowers,  "has  occasioned  you  some  annoyance. 
Whoever  sent  you  the  other. flowers,"  with  meaning,  "is 
to  be  envied."  His  tone  is  almost  a  question,  and  it  gets 
its  answer. 

"  Lord  Branksmere  sent  them,"  returns  she,  quickly,  if 
indifferently.  Something  in  her  manner,  that  Staines 
chooses  to  translate  to  his  own  satisfaction,  sends  a  sudden 
light  of  triumph  to  his  eyes.  To  him  her  hasty  answer  is 
equivalent  to  a  desire  on  her  part  to  relieve  him  of  all 
jealous  fears.  She  would  have  him  assured  that  no  other 
man's  flowers  had  been  chosen  in  preference  to  his,  but 
that  Branksmere's  had  been  worn  through  a  mere  sense  of 
mingled  fear  and  duty. 

Her  fingers  are  still  in  a  listless  fashion  rippling  the 
calm  water  of  the  fountain.  Seen  by  the  rays  of  the 
ghostly  moon,  they  look  like  the  fingers  of  a  dead  hand 
floating  there  in  their  slender  whiteness.  Staines,  stoop- 
ing over  the  basin,  takes  possession  of  them,  and  forcibly 
draws  them  from  the  water.  The  large  drops  falling  from 
them  glisten  like  jewels.  Muriel  seems  surprised  by  his 
action,  but  not  inordinately  so. 

"  Let  my  hand  go,"  she  says,  haughtily,  disdaining  to 
make  any  physical  effort  to  release  herself. 

"In  one  moment."  Carefully,  and  with  the  utmost  ten- 
derness, yet  with  an  obedient  haste,  he  dries  the  hand  he 
holds — the  hand  that  once  had  lain  in  his  idly,  contentedly, 
for.  hours,  yet  that  now  chafes  and  frets  at  his  touch.  Per- 
haps the  impatience  that  thrills  through  it  is  not  altogether 
displeasing  to  him  as  he  lifts  his  eyes  and  intently  scans 
the  lowered  lids  and  silent  face  before  him.  A  sad  face, 
pathetic  in  its  studied  coldness,  that  hides  as  if  with  a 
mask  the  workings  of  its  owner's  heart.  Have  her  thoughts 
travelled  backward,  too,  to  those  old  days  of  despised  free- 
dom, when  poverty  was  the  chief  sorrow  with  her,  and  she 
lived  in  the  midst  of  a  merry  tangle  of  boys  and  girls,  and 
when  there  was  one  outside  who 

She  comes  back  to  the  present  with  a  sharp  sigh  as 
Staines  lays  her  hand  now  dry  upon  her  lap. 

"Don't  put  it  in  again,"  he  says,  quietly.  "It  is  still 
early  in  the  year  and  the  water  is  chilly.  You  may  catch 
cold." 

u 


i-jS  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  I  never  catch  cold  " — absently — "  as  you  may  remem- 
ber." 

She  regrets  the  words  even  as  they  pass  her  lips,  and  the 
opportunity  they  afford  him.  He  seizes  upon  it  eagerly. 

"  Remember  !  "  he  repeats,  in  a  tone  of  strongly  repressed 
passion.  "  When  shall  I  forget,  I  wonder  !  What  is  there 
in  all  the  sweet  days  we  passed  together  that  I  do  not 
remember?  Yet" — eagerly — "  do  not  misunderstand  me. 
Do  not  for  an  instant  imagine  that  I  regret  one  single 
hour.  Memory  is  now  the  only  good  that  life  has  left  me. 
The  memory" — his  voice  sinks  to  a  low  tone  full  of  pathos 
— "  of  a  priceless  past !  " 

"Let  the  past  lie,"  returns  she,  coldly.  "  What  have  we 
to  do  with  it  ?  Jt  is  gone,  dead.  No  effort,  however  vio- 
lent, can  bring  it  within  our  grasp  again." 

"  I  have  at  least  one  solace  in  my  desolation,"  says 
Staines,  in  a  low  tone.  "And  that  is  the  knowledge  that 
I  suffer  alone.  It  is,  it  shall  be,"  vehemently,  "  a  lasting 
comfort  for  me  to  know  that  you  are  as  free  from  regrets 
as  I  am  overshadowed  by  them." 

"Shadows  are  movable  things,"  with  a  faint  shrug  of 
her  shoulders.  "  It  seems  to  me  that  at  times  you  can 
emerge  from  yours  with  a  very  tolerable  success." 

"  Ay,  but  they  always  follow  one.  In  reality  (though  one 
may  deceive  one's  self  at  times)  there  is  no  escape  from 
them.  But  be  happy  in  the  thought  that  they  do  not 
trouble  you — that  those  old  days  so  dear  to  me,  are  by  you 
remembered  but  as  a  foolish,  passing  dream." 

"Would  you  have  me  believe  you  unhappy,"  demands 
she,  scornfully. 

"  I  would  have  you  believe  nothing  displeasing  to  you. 
Mould  your  beliefs  according  to  your  fancy." 

"  I  have  none.  I  have  lost  all  beliefs,"  declares  she,  with 
a  rather  reckless  defiance.  "  But  don't  waste  time  over 
that  speach.  You  look  as  though  you  had  something  to 
say.  Say  it." 

"  You  are  wrong.  I  never  felt  more  tongue-tied  in  my 
life.  I  could  tell  you  nothing  that  is  not  already  old  and 
weary  news  to  you.  That  I  have  loved,  that  I  do  love,  that 
I  shall  love  you  and  you  only — -forever  and  ever  !  " 

His  tone  is  so  calm,  so  entirely  wanting  in  the  vehe- 
mence that  disturbs,  that  she  seems  scarcely  called  upon  to 
rise  and  forbid  his  further  utterance.  She  sits  quite  mute 
with  her  eyes  downcast,  and  her  fingers  tightly  laced,  lying 
in  her  lap. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  175 

"It  is  an  uninteresting  tale,  is  it  not  ?"  continues  he, 
quietly.  "  All  on  the  one  string.  Yet  for  me  it  has  varia- 
tions. I  can  make  my  torture  a  little  keener  now  and 
then,  by  a  careful  reminding  of  myself  that  the  woman  for 
whom  I  would  have  bartered  every  hope  I  possess — de- 
liberately— of  her  own  free  will — severed  between  us 
every  tie." 

'  "  For  whom  you  would  have  bartered  alii '  Why  did 
you  never  protest  so  much  as  that  in  those  old  days  you 
are  so  fond  of  recalling  ?  "  inquires  she,  with  a  sudden  cold 
sneer. 

"  I  thought  I  had  protested  more.  I  believed  my  soul 
as  open  to  your  gaze  as  I  madly  dreamed  yours  was  to 
mine.  I  saw  no  necessity  for  words.  I  " — dejectedly — 
"was  mistaken  upon  both  points.  My  failure  was  my  own 
fault,  no  doubt,  but  it  is  none  the  less  bitter  for  that." 

"  If,  indeed,  you  feel  as  you  now  pretend,  you  should 
never  have  come  to  this  house,"  declares  she,  with  slow 
distinctness,  but  he  can  see  that  she  is  trembling. 

"  I  know  that  now,  but  then How  could  I  tell — 

how  be  sure  how  it  was  with  me  until  I  saw  you  again." 
He  is  speaking  with  extreme  agitation  ;  at  this  moment, 
indeed,  he  is  sincere  enough,  and  the  woman  before  him, 
standing  gazing  at  him  with  head  erect,  in  all  her  cold,  im- 
perious beauty,  seems  to  him  the  one  desirable  thing  on 
earth.  He  had  almost  denied  the  truth  to  Madame  von 
Thirsk — had  refused  at  least  to  acknowledge  it,  yet  cer- 
tainly the  honestest  love  he  had  ever  known  had  been 
called  into  existence  by  Muriel  Daryl.  The  girl  he  had 
accounted  charming,  a  prize  worth  any  man's  winning,  yet 
that  first  love  of  his  had  sunk  into  insignificance  beside  the 
passionate  admiration  he  had  felt  on  seeing  her  as  Lady 
Branksmere.  The  gorgeous  setting  of  her  new  life  had  so 
suited  her  and  enhanced  her  every  beauty,  that  the 
memory  of  the  girl  grew  dim  before  the  splendor  of  the 
woman. 

He  admires  her — finding  a  fresh  charm  even  in  her  very 
insolence  toward  him — covets  her  daily,  hourly,  and  with 
his  growing  passion  for  her,  encourages  also  a  settled  de- 
testation of  the  man  who,  to  use  his  own  thoughts,  has 
stolen  her  from  him.  That  she  is  mistress  of  the  best  af- 
fection he  has  to  offer  is  beyond  question — but  that  affec- 
tion just  falls  short  of  what  a  true  lover's  should  be,  in  that 
his  love  for  himself  is  by  many  degrees  stronger  than  his 
love  for  her  could  ever  be.  Still  his  regard  for  her  is 


iSo  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

great  enough  to  throw  passion  into  his  voice  and  a  certain 
fire  into  his  handsome  eyes. 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  he  goes  on  vehemently,  "as  though 
I  should  come  ;  as  though  with  my  own  eyes  I  must  see 
you,  if  only  once  again."  He  pauses. 

"  And  ?  "  Her  tone  is  stern,  almost  bitter,  but  her  lips 
are  white. 

"  Now  I  know"  returns  he,  brokenly,  "  my  love  still  lives 
— nay  has  grown  a  thousand  fold  in  its  vain  strength.  I 
have  learned  that  time  holds  no  hope  for  me.  That  I  am 
as  sick  of  life  as  a  man  may  well  be  !  " 

"Why  do  you  stay  here  if  you  are  so  unhappy  ?"  cries 
she,  suddenly.  "Why  don't  you  go?"  She  rises  and 
stretches  out  her  hand  with  a  quick  impulsive  meaning. 
"Go,  I  beseech  you,"  she  exclaims,  feverishly,  and  with 
such  an  eager  desire  in  her  tone  that  one  might  easily  be- 
lieve her  to  be  entreating  more  for  herself  than  him. 

"  I  cannot !  Some  power  chains  me  to  this  spot.  It  is 
a  fear,  undefined  as  yet,  but  it  is  too  strong  for  me — it 
holds  me  here." 

"A  mere  morbid  fancy,"  returns  she,  regarding  him 
fixedly.  "  You  should  despise  such  vague  warnings." 

"  Not  when  they  point  toward  you?"  She  pales  per- 
ceptibly, and  would  have  spoken,  but  seeing  the  haughty 
curve  her  lips  have  taken — the  scorn  in  her  eyes  of  all 
danger  for  herself — and  yet  underneath  all  that  the  lurk- 
ing terror  that  his  words  have  called  forth,  to  the  very 
blanching  of  her  face,  he  prevents  her  answer  and  hurries 
on  deliberately. 

"  If  I  could  manage  to  forget,  or  to  be  indifferent,  I 
might  indeed  make  my  escape  ;  but  that  is  impossible. 
Nor  would  I  care  for  such  oblivion.  For — "  with  an  im- 
patient sigh — 

'Even  though  I've  shattered  my  skiff  on  the  rocks, 
The  voyage  was  sweet  while  it  lasted.' 

No  !     I  would  not  forget.     The  very  voyage  that  wrecked 

my  happiness  will  always  be  the  dearest  memory  1  have." 

"It  is  folly — madness,"  cries  she,  angrily.     "You  should 

go-" 

"  Are  those  your  orders  ? "  demands  he,  sadly.     "  Do  not 

enforce  them.  And  there  is  another  thing" — he  draws 
nearer  to  her  in  an  agitated  haste,  and  his  voice  sinks  to 
a  whisper,  "how  can  I  go,  and  leave  you  here  alone, 


LADY   BRANKSMERE.  181 

surrounded  by  those  who — at  least — bear  you  no  good- 
will ! " 

He  breaks  off  abruptly  as  if  in  sore  distress,  but  in  reality 
to  mark  the  effect  of  his  words.  She  has  stepped  back 
from  him,  and  her  hand  has  dropped  downward  and  is 
clinging  tightly  to  the  cold  edge  of  the  marble  basin. 

"  Give  voice  to  whatever  is  in  your  mind,"  she  com- 
mands him,  in  a  high,  clear  tone.  But  though  her  tone  is 
steady,  there  is  something  wild  and  strained  in  the  glance 
that  accompanies  it.  What  is  it  he  is  about  to  say  to  her  ? 
"  Are  you  afraid  to  put  your  insinuation  into  plain  words  ? 
The  worst  enemies,  they  tell  us,  are  those  of  one's  house- 
hold— who  is  it  you  would  bid  me  distrust  ?  Speak  ! — 

Branksmere  ?  His  grandmother  ? — or  perhaps "  she 

draws  her  breath  sharply,  and  the  squareness  of  her  mouth 
becomes  more  pronounced — "Madame  von  Thirsk  ?" 

"  You  give  me  my  opportunity,"  exclaims  he,  eagerly. 
"  Madame  von  Thirsk  !  Do  not  trust  her.  I  know  but 
little,  I  have  no  right  to  judge,  but — do  not,  I  implore  you 
— place  faith  in  that  woman." 

A  deadly  chill  passes  over  Muriel.  Her  own  suspicions 
thus  echoed  by  another  seem  to  enlarge  them  at  once  to  a 
gigantic  size.  But  yet  he  may  know  nothing  of  that 
darker  fear  of  hers,  of  that  shameful  doubt  that  possesses 
her  soul  by  night  and  day.  A  terrible  longing  that  this 
last  indignity  may  be  spared  her,  nerves  her  to  answer  him. 

"  I  fancied  you  were  Madame.' s  friend,"  she  says,  in  a 
tone  she  vainly  strives  to  render  careless.  "  Did  I  not  see 
you  talking  to  her  just  now  ?  It  appeared  to  me  that  you 
held  very  amicable  relations  with  her.  I  was  wrong?" 

"  How  can  I  say  whether  you  are  right  or  wrong  ?  She 
has  given  me  no  reason  to  be  otherwise  than  outwardly 
friendly  with  her.  It  is  only  some  hidden  instinct  that 
bids  me  watch  her,  for  your  sake"  He  hesitates  openly,  and 
then  leans  toward  her  in  an  impulsive  way,  that  adds  a 
double  and  most  sinister  meaning  to  his  words.  "  I  would 
be  rid  of  this  accursed  doubt,"  he  says  in  a  low,  condensed 
tone,  "tell  me — you,  who  should  know — what  is  it  there  is 
• — between  her  and — Branksmere  ?  " 

Muriel  leans  heavily  against  the  fountain — no  answer 
falls  from  her  lips.  It  is  all  over  then  ?  The  disgrace  is 
known  !  Those  miserable  fears  of  hers  were  only  too  well 
grounded  !  A  sense  of  suffocation  threatens  to  overpower 
her.  She  feels  giddy,  and  a  strange  buzzing  noise  ringing 
through  her  brain  distracts  her.  She  is  not  conscious 


182  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

until  afterward  that  in  this  instant  of  agony  she  has  un- 
consciously flung  out  her  hand  and  laid  it,  with  a  terrible 
trembling  in  it,  on  Staines'  arm,  a  trembling  that  betrays 
her  !  Instinctively  as  it  were,  she  has  turned  to  him  for 
support,  for  succor.  His  pulses  throb  with  unusual  force 
as  he  recognizes  this  fact,  and  closes  his  own  fingers  firmly 
over  the  beautiful  slender  ones  that  came  to  him  of  their 
own  accord. 

Then  in  a  moment  it  all  passes  away — her  agitation — • 
the  anguish — the  deadly  shame.  All  is  gone  from  her, 
and  she  is  herself  again,  save  for  an  additional  pallor  in 
her  cheeks  and  a  strained  passion  of  fear  in  the  gray  eyes. 

"Must  no  man  dare  to  have  an  old  friend?"  she  asks, 
with  an  attempt  at  lightness,  that  is  only  a  miserable  fail- 
ure. Her  strength  is  insufficient  for  her  while  his  eyes 
pierce  her  thoughts,  and,  after  a  last  wild  struggle  with 
herself,  she  breaks  down  utterly,  and  buries  her  face  in  her 
hands. 

"  My  beloved !  That  you  should  have  to  endure  all 
this  !  "  murmurs  Staines,  in  a  tone  so  low,  so  replete  with 
all  the  lover's  fond  indignation,  that  it  is  barely  audible  ; 
yet  it  thrills  through  her. 

And  then  in  a  moment  as  it  were  his  arms  are  round  her, 
and  he  has  pressed  her  bowed  head  down  upon  his  breast. 
She  lies  there  passively.  At  this  time  when  her  very  soul 
is  sick  within  her,  it  seems  to  her  as  if  there  was  nothing 
at  all  that  mattered.  What  are  honor,  loyalty,  faith  ? 
Words — all  words  !  Nothing  remains  but  the  knowledge 
that  all  the  world  is  at  liberty  now  to  jeer  at  her,  and 
point  the  finger  of  scorn  at  her — the  despised  wife.  Good 
heavens  !  can  such  things  be  for  her — Muriel  Daryl  ? 

O,  the  old  days  !  The  happy  days  !  When  she  reigned 
as  a  minor  queen  over  them  all !  When  love  brightened 
her  path.  O,  to  be  loved  again !  To  be  able  to  forget 
this  part  that  has  been  assigned  her — the  role  of  a  woman 
neglected  by  him  who  should  be  her  guide,  and  guardian, 
and  protector. 

And  this  man  loves  her!  This  man  whose  affection  had 
seemed  to  her  a  little  cold,  a  little  careless,  in  the  past. 
She  had  wronged  him  there.  Now  in  the  hour  of  her 
desolation  it  seems  good  to  her  that  love  should  not  be 
altogether  denied  her,  that  it  may  yet  be  hers,  no  matter 
in  how  sorry  a  disguise  it  comes.  To  her,  love  is  a  pure 
and  holy  thing — passion  has  no  part  in  it.  To  be  deemed 
the  one  thing  needful,  the  best,  the  dearest  possession  life 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  183 

can  afford,  by  one  human  creature,  is  all  she  desires. 
Ghosts  of  a  dead  sweetness  rise  before  her,  springing  to 
life  again  beneath  the  burden  of  her  grief.  Must  she  with 
her  own  hands  crusli  them  back  into  their  graves  again. 
Is  everything  to  be  denied  her?  Why  should  she  so 
greatly  dread  the  world — what  can  it  give  her  save  its  pity  ! 
She  literally  writhes  beneath  this  thought,  and  a  sharp  sob 
escapes  her  ! 

Oh  !  to  fling  it  all  from  her.  To  rush  into  another, 
freer  life.  To  breathe  again  !  And  here  is  a  door  open  to 
her — a  means  of  escape. 

All  at  once  a  revulsion  seizes  upon  her  ;  she  drags  her- 
self out  of  his  arms  and  stands  back  from  hin.  With  slow, 
shuddering  gasps  she  catches  her  breath.  Of  what  had 
she  been  thinking — she?  A  terror  has  fallen  upon  her, 
strange,  vivid,  horrible  ;  a  looking  into  herself  that  has 
changed  and  darkened  her  face,  and  made  her  look  like  an 
incarnate  fear  !  Whither  is  she  drifting  ? 

"  Muriel,  you  shall  not  feel  it  like  this,"  cries  Staines, 
shocked  at  the  expression  in  her  eyes.  "  Hear  me  !" 

"  Nay,  sir  ;  be  satisfied  !  "  breathes  she,  heavily.  "  Am  I 
not  degraded  enough  ?  At  your  bidding  all  was  forgotten. 
I  do  not  see  how  I  am  to  look  anyone  of  them  in  the  face 
again." 

She  is  not  thinking  of  the  guests  within,  but  of  Margery 
— pure,  sweet,  merry  Margery — and  of  all  the  other  girls 
and  boys  who  call  her  sister. 

"  Let  us  talk  sense,"  says  Staines,  with  a  sudden  rough- 
ness, that  under  the  circumstances  is  only  kind.  "The 
question  now  is  how  can  I  help  you.  I  have  nothing  to 
offer — nothing  save  my  devotion." 

"  I  want  nothing  from  you,"  cries  she,  passionately. 
"  That  least  of  all.  Did  the  whole  world  combine,  do  you 
think  it  could  avenge  such  a  case  as  mine  ?  And  you,  of 
all  others,  how  dare  you  offer  me  help  ?  You,  to  whom  I 

have  shown ."  Further  words  refuse  to  pass  her  lips, 

and  he  perhaps  slightly  misunderstands  the  thing  she 
would  have  said.  "  No — no  help  from  you  to  me  is  pos- 
sible," she  says,  presently.  "  Be  sure  of  that.  I  will  ac- 
cept nothing  at  your  hands." 

She  is  white  as  death,  and  her  great  stormy  eyes  are 
flashing.  They  fall  upon  the  flowers  she  is  still  mechani- 
cally holding,  and,  with  a  gesture  of  intense  scorn,  she 
dashes  them  to  the  ground  and  treads  them  under  foot. 
She  turns  upon  him  like  an  outraged  queen. 


1 84  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"Oh,  that  I  could  so  trample  out  of  sight  all  that  troub- 
les me,"  she  cries,  her  fingers  plucking  convulsively  at  the 
soft  laces  that  lie  upon  her  bosom. 

As  she  so  stands,  beautiful  in  her  grief  and  her  cruel 
self-contempt,  a  soft,  low  laugh  rings  through  the  shrub- 
bery upon  her  left. 


CHAPTER  XXIX. 

"Woman's  at  best  a  contradiction  still.' 


"  THIS  retreat  of  yours  is  a  positive  sanctuary,"  says  Hal- 
kett,  dropping  leisurely  on  to  a  three-legged  stool,  with  all 
the  air  of  a  man  who  has  worn  himself  out  ia  the  perform- 
ance of  his  duty.  It  is  very  dusky  in  this  corner  of  the 
balcony,  and  there  is  something  soothing  in  the  thought 
that  everyone  is  dancing  in  the  rooms  within,  and  that 
one's  own  body  is  idly  resting.  He  has  addressed  Margery 
Daryl,  but  there  are  two  or  three  others  lounging  in  this 
quiet,  forgotten  little  spot,  hemmed  in  by  the  tall  shrubs 
in  their  huge  pots.  There  is  enough  light  falling  on  them 
from  within,  to  cast  a  faint  radiance  on  their  darkness,  and 
to  make  the  different  faces  known  to  a  person  with  good 
sight.  But  not  enough  to  disturb  the  repose  of  the  scene. 

Mrs.  Daryl  is  sitting. on  the  sill  of  the  curtained  window  ; 
Curzon  Bellew  is  leaning  over  Margery's  chair.  Peter, 
and  a  tall  artillery-man  called  Herrick,  who  has  for  months 
been  rendered  morose  by  an  absorbing  passion  for  Miss 
Daryl,  are  leaning  against  the  ivy,  madly  regardless  of  the 
earwigs,  and  Peter's  last  pretty  partner  is  amusing  herself 
with  him  from  the  depths  of  a  cushioned  lounge  that,  with 
the  aid  of  a  big  red  fan,  almost  conceals  her  from  view. 

"If  a  sanctuary,  who  gave  you  permission  to  invade  it  ?" 
asks  Margery,  gayly.  She  has  been  particularly  right- 
minded  up  to  this  rather  late  hour,  and  Curzon's  soul  has 
been  quieted  within  him,  but  now,  all  suddenly  as  it  seems, 
she  wakes  into  a  wicked  life,  and,  sitting  more  upright, 
turns  a  bewildering  smile  on  Halkett.  There  is  always  a 
little  standing  flirtation  between  them,  though  she  well 
knows  where  his  heart  is  buried,  and  he  knows  he  is  less 


LADY  BRANKSMERR.  185 

than  nothing  to  her  when  once  the  friendship  boundary  is 
passed,  still,  for  the  purposes  of  teasing  other  attendant 
swains,  Halkett,  as  Miss  Daryl  uses  him,  is  invaluable. 

"  What  an  unkind  speech  !  Have  I  not  flown  to  you  for 
refuge  ?  And  is  this  the  spirit  in  which  my  prayer  is  re- 
ceived ?  Seeing  you  not  alone,  Miss  Daryl,  or  even  a  deux, 
I  took  the  liberty — 

"  Oh  !  that  is  nothing.  You  are  always  taking  that,"  re- 
torts she,  with  a  pretty  pretence  at  scorn  that  finds  its  end 
in  the  little  laugh,  tuneful  and  sweet.  "The  question  is 
what  brought  you  ?  " 

"Need  you  ask?"  reproachfully.  "You  know  I  am 
always  unhappy  when — 

"  She  proves  untrue  ! "  This  speech  is  a  whisper  and 
has  allusion  to  Mrs.  Amyot,  but  to  Curzon  and  the  tall 
man  next  him,  it  is  full  of  sinister  meaning  and  creates 
within  them  a  ravening  desire  for  blood. 

"She  always  does,"  says  Halkett,  ignoring  the  allusion, 
and  looking  sentimentally  at  her.  "Who  should  know  it 
so  well  as  you  ? " 

"Who,  indeed." 

"Yet  you  have  most  cruelly  deserted  me  all  to-night; 
most  wantonly  you  have  flung  me  among  the  Philistines. 
That  I  still  live  is  no  merit  of  yours.  And  all  the  time 
you  have  been  dreaming  here,  or  in  some  other  fortunate 
spot,  while  he  who  would  die  to — to — 

"Yes.  Don't  let  it  embarrass  you  ;  I  know  all  the  rest," 
puts  in  Miss  Daryl,  kindly. 

"  You  should  !  You  have  served  an  apprenticeship  to  it. 
But  to-night's  success  should  not  render  you  unmindful  of 
the  pangs  of  others.  To  know  that  all  the  world  is  grovel- 
ling at  your  feet  might  make  you  merciful  instead  of  cruel." 

il  Perhaps  you  think  you  are  amusing  me  ?  "  with  a  soft, 
disdainful  uplifting  of  her  dainty  chin,  and  a  little  dimp- 
ling smile. 

"  My  natural  self-conceit  never  carried  me  as  far  as  that." 

"That  is  just  as  well," 

"  I  don't  think  you  are  in  a  very  pretty  temper  to-night. 
A  generous  mistress  uses  the  lash  sparingly  to  her  slaves." 

"  Her  favorite  slaves,  perhaps.  Besides,  who  told  you  I 
ever  was  in  a  pretty  temper  ?  " 

"  No  on.e.  I  think  myself,  so  far  as  /  am  concerned, 
you  never  are." 

"  The  lady  of  your  heart  is  always  good-tempered,  of 
course!"  There  is  another  innuendo  in  this  remark  ;  Mrs. 


i85  LADY  BRANKSMRRE. 

Amyot  at  times  being  a  little  impetuous,  to  say  the  least  of 
it. 

"No.  Have  I  not  just  this  moment  told  you  she  never 
is — to  me." 

Miss  Daryl  makes  a  little  grimace. 

4<  The  object  of  your  affections,"  she  begins,  saucily,  but 
he  interrupts  her. 

"Oh,  Miss  Daryl!  'The  object!'  For  my  sake  if  not 
for  your  own,  refrain  !  I  really  cannot  sit  silent  and  hear 
you  call  yourself  names." 

Wilhelmina  in  the  background  (who  has  been  kindly 
striving  to  keep  the  gloomy  artillery-man  from  man- 
slaughter) here  so  far  forgets  her  self-imposed  mission  as 
to  burst  out  laughing.  Margery  follows  suit,  and  present- 
ly Mr.  Halkett,  though  with  a  carefully  aggrieved  air,  joins 
in  also. 

"  Now,  where  does  the  joke  come  in  ? "  demands  he, 
mournfully. 

"  That  is  what  we  all  want  to  know,"  says  Curzon, 
speaking  for  the  first  time.  As  he  makes  this  chilling  re- 
mark he  throws  up  his  head,  and  yawns  in  a  bored  way, 
very  successfully. 

"  All  ?  /  don't,"  says  Margery,  gayly,  glancing  at  the 
unresponding  Bellew  from  under  her  long  lashes. 

"  No  ?  You  are  happy  then  in  not  being  a  prey  to  the 
unsatisfied  curiosity  that  is  consuming  me." 

I  am  so  far  a  prey  to  curiosity  that  I  am  dying  to  know 
what  you  mean,"  says  Margery,  teasingly,  who  ought  to 
be  ashamed  of  herself. 

"  I  should  think  my  meaning  has  always  been  perfectly 
clear  to  you,"  returns  he,  with  a  steady  glance  that  fails  to 
disconcert  her  in  the  very  least.  "  By  the  bye,  this  is  our 
dance,  I  believe." 

"  Is  it  ?  I — I  don't  think  I  want  to  dance,"  returns  she. 
Halkett  has  gone  over  to  talk  to  Mrs.  Daryl,  so  that  she 
and  Curzon  are  virtually  alone. 

"  Don't  you  ?  I  wonder,  then,  why  you  come  here  ? " 
says  Mr.  Bellew,  in  a  practical  tone.  "  The  business  of  a 
ball  is  dancing,  one  can  sit  and  doze  at  home." 

"  There  are  other  things  besides  dancing." 

"True!  There  is  flirting,"  says  he,  bitterly,  which  re- 
mark establishes  a  coldness  in  the  conversation  that  lasts 
for  many  minutes.  It  is  still  at  freezing  point  when  Tom- 
my Paulyn,  unattached,  runs  lightly  up  the  steps  to  their 
left  and  precipitates  himself  upon  them. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE,  187 

"What  are  you  all  doing  here  in  the  dark  ? "  asks  he,  in 
a  loud,  cheerful  tone  that  seems  to  dissipate  the  peaceful 
gloom  at  once.  Shade  to  Mr.  Paulyn  means  dulness,  and 
dulness  death.  "All  in  the  dumps,  eh  ?"  with  a  glance 
at  Margery  and  Bellew.  "  Been  to  the  gardens  ?  They 
are  looking  lovely.  Try  'em  and  take  my  advice,  they'd 
kill  your  blues  in  a  hurry." 

"  Did  they  cure  yours,  Tommy  ?  Was  that  why  you 
sought  them  ? "  demands  Margery,  oh  !  so  sweetly. 

"  No,  my  dear,  I  leave  the  vapors  to  such  thinly-minded 
little  girls  as  yourself.  I  defy  any  man,  woman,  dr  child 
to  affect  my  nerves.  To  devilled  oysters  alone  that  proud 
boast  belongs.  But,  seriously,  the  gardens  are  awfully 
well  got  up.  Lamps  everywhere,  and  stars  and  things. 
Never  saw  such  a  satisfactory  moon  anywhere.  The  com- 
mittee ought  to  be  congratulated  on  its  arrangements. 
They  ought  to  be  presented  with  a  Bible  or  something." 

"  Not  good  enough,"  says  Miss  Daryl.  "  According  to 
your  account  they  have  managed  even  the  heavens  admi- 
rably. I  don't  see  what  could  repay  them." 

"  Will  you  come  and  look  at  them  ? "  asks  Curzon, 
meaning  the  gardens,  not  the  committee,  conquering 
himself  a  little,  in  his  fear  that  Halkett  will  be  before 
him.  "  It  is  a  charming  night,  quite  sultry." 

"  Cold,  I  should  have  thought,"  replies  she,  who  had 
certainly  never  thought  about  it  at  all  until  she  saw  her 
lover's  eyes  fixed  imploringly  upon  her,  and  heard  the 
note  of  activity  in  his  tone. 

"  Pouf  !  "  exclaims  Mr.  Paulyn,  lightly.  "  I  like  to  hear 
you  beginning  to  be  careful  of  your  health.  You  aren't 
more  delicate  than  Muriel,  are  you  ?  And  she  has  been 
enjoying  the  midnight  breeze  with  Staines  for  the  last 
hour."  Tommy  says  this  quite  gayly,  being  ignorant  of 
any  reason  (or  at  all  events  unmindful)  why  she  should 
not  so  enjoy  herself.  He  is  blind  also  to  the  fact  that  the 
smile  has  died  away  from  Margery's  lips,  and  a  curious 
gleam  has  sprung  to  life  in  the  eyes  of  Mrs.  Daryl. 

Oblivious  of  the  different  storms  his  words  have  raised, 
he  rattles  on  gayly  to  whoever  will  kindly  listen,  and,  un- 
der cover  of  his  converse,  Bellew  once  more  appeals  to 
Margery. 

"Come,"  he  says,  earnestly.     This  time  without  a  word 

she  rises  as  though  glad  of  a  chance  of  escape,  and  moves- 

slowly,  listlessly  down  the  steps  into  the  scented  darkness 

•beyond.     In   silence,  as  though  weighed  down  by  some 


i88  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

painful  thought,  she  goes,  and  he  makes  no  attempt  to 
break  in  upon  her  voiceless  mood,  until  most  of  the  paths 
have  been  traversed  and  the  hope  is  borne  in  upon  him 
that  her  fears  are  not  to  be  realized. 

"  What  a  fellow  your  cousin  is  to  talk,"  he  says,  then, 
with  a  very  successful  air  of  indifference.  "  I  quite 
thought  by  what  he  said  that  Lady  Branksmere  was 
somewhere  out  here  ;  didn't  you,  eh  ?  " 

"  I  know  Tommy,  and  the  wildness  of  his  surmisings 
better  than  you  do,"  returns  she,  evasively,  but  a  great 
calm  and  comfort  has  come  to  life  within  her  breast,  born 
not  only  of  his  words,  but  of  the  fact  that  Muriel  is  really 
nowhere  to  be  seen.  How  foolish  she  was  to  place  any 
dependence  upon  any  words  of  Tommy's.  One  should  be 
badly  off  indeed,  for  a  reliable  authority  on  any  subject  to 
go  to  him  for  intelligence  !  With  the  restoration  of  her 
peace  of  mind,  returns  also  her  sense  of  aggravation.  And 
it  is,  at  this  very  moment,  that  Bellew  chooses  to  make  a 
rather  unfortunate  remark. 

"You  look  pale,"  he  says,  solicitously.  I  suppose  it 
would  have  ended  very  much  the  same  way  if  he  had  said 
she  looked  red,  as  her  relieved  feelings  are  ambitious  of  a 
quarrel  ;  and  besides,  that  last  insinuation  of  his  on  the 
balcony  is  rankling  afresh  in  her  mind  now  the  greater 
weight  has  been  lifted. 

"  I  am  sorry  I  can't  look  like  a  dairy-maid  to  oblige  you," 
she  says,  with  an  ominous  calm.  "  However,  if  my  ap- 
pearance offends  you,  I  must  try  to  correct  it."  She  lifts 
her  hands  and  administers  to  her  poor  cheeks  a  very  vig- 
orous scrub  that  almost  brings  the  tears  to  her  eyes.  A 
swift,  stinging  flush  rishes  to  her  face.  "  Ncnv,  are  you 
satisfied?"  she  asks,  irately — the  "scrub"  having  hurt 
her  in  a  measure — turning  to  him  a  wrathful,  crimson 
countenance. 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean.  I  can't  see  why  you 
should  speak  to  me  like  this,"  says  Mr.  Bellew,  in  an  in- 
jured tone.  "When  did  I  express  myself  as  dissatisfied 
with  your  face  ?  To  me,"  with  angry  honesty,  "  as  you 
well  know,  it  is  the  most  beautiful  face  in  the  world." 

"  There  is  a  certain  class  of  people  whom  I  detest,"  re- 
turns Miss  Daryl,  unpleasantly,  uplifting  her  pretty  nose 
in  a  contemptuous  fashion.  "  You  are  one  of  them. 
Flattery  is  their  strong  weapon,  and  I'm  sure  you've  been 
paying  me  meaningless  compliments  ever  since  I  was 
born." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  189 

"Born!  "with  a  rather  derisive  laugh.  "You  can  re- 
member since  then  ?" 

"  I  have  often  heard,"  icily,  "  that  there  are  few  so  clever 
as  those  who  have  at  command  an  unlimited  amount  of 
repartee.  Experience  has  taught  me  that  there  are  also 
few  so — wearying."  She  turns  upon  him  eyes  that  are 
half- veiled  by  their  long  lashes,  and  very  aggressive. 

"  If  I  bore  you,"  says  Mr.  Bellew,  whose  temper  by  this 
time  is  almost  as  agreeable  as  her  own,  "it  is  most  un- 
reasonable of  me  to  inflict  my  presence  on  you  any  longer. 
Will  you  come  back  to  the  house,  or  will  you  stay  here 
while  I  tell  Halkett 

"  There  !  I  knew  it  !  "  breaks  in  she,  scornfully.  "Any- 
thing like  your  abominable  jealousy  I  have  never  yet 
known  !  Your  rudeness  to  me  just  now  upon  the  balcony 
I  pass  over.  I  am  accustomed  to  it — but  your  rudeness  to 
that  very  inoffensive  person  does  call  for  comment." 

"  How  was  I  rude,  may  I  ask  ? " 

"  Do  you  then  deny  you  were  in  a  raging  temper  all  the 
time  lie  was — was  courteously  endeavoring  to  entertain 
me  ? " 

"Openly  endeavoring  to  make  love  to  you,  you  mean," 
exclaims  Bellew,  his  long  suppressed  wrath  now  fairly 
boiling  over.  "  Do  you  think  I  am  blind,  or  a  fool  ?  that 
I  can't  see  through  things.  I  tell  you,  you  were  encourag- 
ing Halkett  in  a  disgraceful  fashion,  and  that  he  seemed 
only  too  glad  of  the  encouragement." 

"  I  must  be  a  modern  Venus,"  says  Miss  Daryl,  com- 
posedly, "to  inspire  all  the  different  men  you  mention  at 
odd  times  with  a  due  appreciation  of  my  charms.  To-day 
it  was  Mr.  Herrick — yesterday  Lord  Primrose — to-night 
Mr.  Halkett.  Poor  people  !  It  would  cause  them  some 
slight  embarrassment  I  should  say,  were  they  to  be  openly 
accused  of  their  crime." 

"It  is  not  only "  begins  he,  with  increasing  anger, 

but  she  interrupts  him,  mischievously. 

"Not  only  those  I  have  named?  True!  there  is  still 
Mr.  Goldie  who  has  also  come  under  your  ban.  Even  thai 
estimable  man,  that  small  pillar  of  the  church,  cannot 
escape  your  censure." 

"To  sneer  at  me,  Margery,  is  not  to  convince  me.  I 
have  loved  you  too  long  to  be  callous  on  this  point.  If  an 
end  to  my  dreamings  has  come,  I  would  know  it."  He 
lays  his  hand  on  her  shoulders,  and  turns  her  forcibly  to 
such  a  position,  as  enables  the  pale  moon  to  play  more 


190  LADY  BKANKSMERE. 

earnestly  upon  her  face.  "  It  is  my  belief  that  at  last  you 
have  decided  on  throwing  me  over,  to  marry  some  other 
man." 

"Which  of  them?"  demands  she,  shaking  herself  free 
of  his  angry  clasp.  "  Mr.  Haikett,  who  is  head  over  ears 
in  love  with  Mrs.  Amyot,  or  Lord  Primrose,  who  has 
neither  eyes  nor  ears  for  anyone  save  Lady  Anne  ?" 

"  There  are  others,"  says  he,  with  a  very  determined  face, 
ignoring  her  burst  of  wrath.  "  There  is  Herrick  and — 

She  has  changed  color  perceptibly,  and  started  a  little. 

"  Yes,  Herrick,"  he  reiterates  in  a  despairing  tone,  that 
is  still  warm  with  indignation.  "  See,  when  I  mention  his 
name,  how  you  change  color." 

"  1  suppose  I  can  change  color  if  I  choose.  Is  a  blush 
a  sin?"  asks  she,  looking  at  him  from  the  shadow  into 
which  she  has  wisely  retreated. 

"No.  But  I  will  tell  you  what  is.  The  deliberate 
breaking  of  a  man's  heart.  I  have  loved  you  all  my  life 
I  think — through  your  scorn  and  indifference — and  you 
suffered  me,  only  to  tell  me  now  you  are  going  to  marry 
Herrick." 

"I  am  riot  going  to  tell  you  anything,"  cries  she,  indig- 
nantly, and  to  say  the  truth,  a  little  hypocritically.  "  Am 
I  a  Mary  Baxter,  who  'refused  a  man  before  he  axed 
her  ?'  Am  I  ?" 

"  Did  you  refuse  him  ?  " 

"How  could  I,"  evasively,  "if  he  didn't  give  me  the 
opportunity." 

"  You  give  me  your  word  he  did  not  propose  to  you  ? " 

Thus  driven  to  bay,  Miss  Daryl  once  more  resorts  to 
righteous  anger. 

"  Even  if  he  did — if  they  all  did,  what  is  that  to  you  ? " 
she  demands,  with  her  lovely  eyes  aflame.  "  You  are  not 
my  father,  or  my  brother,  or  my  guardian,  that  you  should 
take  me  to  task — and  certainly  you  shall  never  be  my 
husband." 

This  terrible  speech  seems  to  take  all  heart  out  of 
Bellew.  He  stands,  as  though  stricken  into  stone,  except 
for  the  rapid  gnawing  of  his  mustache.  Until  this  mo- 
ment, in  spite  of  his  vehement  reproaches,  it  had  never 
seemed  really  possible  to  him  that  all  might  indeed  be 
over  between  him  and  her.  Does  she  mean  it?  Can 
she  ?  His  eyes  are  riveted  upon  the  sward  that,  sparkling 
with  moonlit  gems,  lies  at  his  feet.  Will  she  speak  again  ? 
Does  she  guess  how  he  is  enduring  torments  ?  If  she 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  191 

moves  away  what  is  he  to  do — to  follow,  to  implore,  or  to 
resign  all  hope,  finally  ? 

The  moments  fly  by  unchecked.  To  Margery,  his 
silence  is  almost  as  inexplicable  as  hers  to  him. 

If  she  repents  the  severity  of  her  speech,  however,  her 
countenance  by  no  means  reveals  the  fact.  There  is  noth- 
ing of  the  culprit  about  her,  no  smallest  shadow  of  regret 
darkens  her  charming  face. 

"If,"  she  declares  to  herself,  with  undiminished  rage, 
"he  should  stand  there,  mooning,  until  the  day  breaks,  I 
shall  not  be  the  first  to  speak  !  " 

She  has  taken  up  her  fan  and  detached  it  from  the  rib- 
bon that  holds  it,  and  is  opening  and  shutting  it  in  an  idle, 
inconsequent  fashion,  that  to  the  man  watching  her,  with 
moody,  despairing  eyes,  is  maddening.  It  startles  her  in 
spite  of  her  hankering  after  stoicism,  when  she  finds  it 
roughly  taken  from  her  careless  fingers  and  flung  to  a 
considerable  distance. 

''Have  you  nothing  to  say  to  me?"  asks  he,  passion- 
ately. 

"  Nothing,"  returns  she,  calmly,  although  her  heart  is 
beating. 

"  Do  you  know  you  have  told  me  that  all  things  are  at 
an  end  between  us  ?" 

He  is  speaking  very  quietly,  and  her  heart  begins  to 
beat  even  faster,  with  a  more  untamable  speed. 

"Well  !  "  cries  she,  pettishly.  "  It  is  all  your  own  fault. 
I  won't  have  people  jigging  about  after  me,  and  pretend- 
ing to  look  the  deepest  concern  when  there  is  no  cause 
for  it.  There  is  nothing  on  earth  so  tiresome  as  being 
asked  every  moment  whether  one  has  a  headache,  or  if 
one's  neuralgia  is  worse  ;  or  if  some  iced  water  wouldn't 
do  one  good  !  " 

"And  all  this,"  remarks  Mr.  Bellew,  with  mournful  re- 
proach, addressing  the  listening  roses,  "has  arisen  out  of 
my  simple  declaration  that  I  thought  she  was  looking  a 
little  pale!" 

Miss  Daryl  changes  color,  fights  a  short  battle  with  her 
gravity,  and  finally  bursts  into  open  mirth. 

"  I  have  been  a  cross  goose,  certainly,"  she  confesses, 
with  heroic  candor  ;  "  but  never  mind.  We  are  friends 
again  now,  aren't  we." 

"  We  are  not,"  returns  he. 

"Oh!  that  as  you  will,  of  course,"  stiffly;  "but  I 
thought " 


iga  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  I  am  your  lover,"  declares  he,  stoutly.  "  Nothing  you 
could  do  or  say  would  alter  that  fact.  You  can  throw  in 
the  friend  and  welcome.  But  your  lover  I  am,  before  and 
above  all  else.  And  so  I  shall  remain  whether  you  wed 
me,  or  some  other  man,  or  if  you  never  marry  at  all." 

"  Do  you  know  I  think  it  will  be  that,"  says  she,  alluding 
to  the  last  part  of  his  speech.  "  I  am  sure  I  shall  never 
marry— never ! " 

"  Shall  we  walk  on  a  little  further?"  asks  Bellew,  in  the 
severe  tone  of  one  who  wishes  to  impress  you  with  the  be- 
lief that  he  considers  you  are  talking  folly. 

They  stray  beyond  the  pleasant  garden,  past  numerous 
groups  of  wanderers  like  themselves,  and  gleaming  stat- 
ues, not  always  in  the  strictest  taste,  to  the  shrubbery  that 
lies  to  the  right  of  all  these,  in  the  well-planned  public 
gardens  so  dear  to  the  hearts  of  the  citizens. 

"  I  really  think,  Curzon,"  says  Margery,  ^ayly,  who  has 
quite  recovered  herself,  shooting  a  charmingly  saucy 
glance  at  him  from  her  adorable  eyes,  "  that  there  is  one 
small  thing  for  which  an  apology  is  due  from  you  to  me. 
What  was  that  little  insinuation  of  yours  about  flirting, 
eh  ?  You  didn't  mean  it — h'm  ?  " 

She  has  the  prettiest  way  in  the  world  of  uttering  that 
unspellable  question,  and  Curzon  goes  down  before  it. 
Nevertheless,  with  a  last  effort  at  maintaining  his  self-re- 
spect, he  ma-kes  a  poor  pretence  at  not  understanding  her. 

"  Flirting  ! "  he  repeats,  with  a  vague  air  that  would  not 
have  imposed  on  an  infant.  "  I'm  sure  I  shouldn't  say  or 
mean  anything,  intentionally,  that  would  hurt  you." 

"That's  all  very  well,"  replies  she,  persistently.  "But 
the  thing  is,  did  you  mean  that?  I'm  not  a  flirt,  Curzon, 
am  I  ?  And  you  don't  think  so,  do  you  ?  " 

There  is  no  getting  out  of  this.  Mr.  Bellew  being 
brought  to  bay  surrenders  with  the  basest  cowardice. 

"  Of  course  not,"  he  says,  hastily.  "  I  must  have — have 
been  a  fool  when  I  said  that." 

"  Only  then  ?"  mischievously. 

"  Then,  and  now,  and  always  when  I  am  with  you,"  re- 
turns he,  vehemently — perhaps  a  little  sadly. 

"  I  thank  you  for  giving  me  your  choicest  hours  !  "  says 
she,  with  a  little  grimace.  And  then:  "After  all,  how 
could  I  expect  you  to  give  me  of  your  best,  I,  who  am  so 
bent  on  being  an  old  maid  ?  " 

"  You,  who  are  so  bent  on  breaking  my  heart !  "  replies 
he,  gloomily. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  193 

Miss  Daryl  laughs — a  soft,  tuneful  laugh  that  rings 
through  the  cool  night  air.  As  she  laughs  she  moves,  and 
parting  the  thick  screen  of  leaves  that  hides  her  from  the 
fuller  view  beyond,  steps  on  to  the  shorn  plateau  clad  only 
with  moonbeams,  that  is  musical  with  the  sound  of  the 
dripping  fountain. 

As  she  looks  straight  before  her  the  laughter  dies  upon 
her  lips.  Her  smile  grows  frozen.  There — there  in  the 
moonlight — only  a  few  yards  from  her,  stands  Muriel,  her 
face  pale,  ashen,  all  the  marks  of  passionate  despair  upon 
her  beautiful  face,  and  there,  too,  stands — Staines. 


CHAPTER  XXX. 

"  Who  makes  quick  use  of  the  moment  is  a  genius  of  prudence." 

THE  whole  thing  is  over  in  a  moment.  Margery,  like 
one  stunned,  steps  back  again  behind  the  kindly  shelter 
of  the  evergreens,  and  Curzon  (who,  too,  has  seen  and  com- 
prehended all)  follows  her  rapidly,  anxiously,  in  her  hasty 
walk  back  to  the  house. 

Not  a  word  or  sigh  escapes  her  ;  yet  he,  loving  her, 
knows  the  agony  her  heart  is  enduring,  and  understands 
but  too  well  the  degradation  and  horror  that  is  possessing 
her.  Her  lips  have  grown  white  and  fixed,  her  glance  is 
stern,  all  the  pretty,  petulant  playfulness  seems  killed 
within  her,  and  her  breath  comes  heavily.  Her  fingers 
are  so  tightly  clinched  around  her  fan  that  he  can  see 
through  the  gloves  the  very  shape  of  her  nails. 

To  induce  her  to  break  through  this  cruel  reserve  that 
is  still  deeper  augmenting  her  sorrow,  becomes  to  Bellew 
an  imperative  duty ;  and  at  last,  coming  to  a  shaded  spot, 
where  they  two  are  virtually  alone,  he  lays  his  hand  gently 
on  her  arm,  and  draws  her  toward  him. 

"  Don't  take  it  so  hardly,  darling,"  he  says,  very  ten- 
derly, though  secretly  rather  anxious  as  to  how  his  inter- 
ference will  be  received.  Will  she  resent  it,  and  turn 
from  his  sympathy  coldly  ?  There  is  a  pause  full  of  doubt, 
and  then — all  at  once  — Margery  turns  to  him  and  lays  her 
head  upon  his  breast  and  bursts  into  a  passion  of  silent 
tears. 

"  Oh,  Curzon  !  "  exclaims  she,  in  a  bitter  tone,  clinging 
to  him  in  the  abandonment  of  the  moment. 
13 


194  LADY  BRANKSMERh. 

"There  is  a  great  deal  of  unbappiness  in  the  world, 
Margery  ;  but  you  must  not  take  things  to  heart  as  though 
there  were  no  hope,  no  remedy."  He  has  his  arms  round 
her,  and  as  he  speaks  he  stoops  and  presses  his  lips  softly 
to  her  pretty  hair.  Is  he  not  her  lover?  Is  she  not  the 
one  dear  sacred  thing  to  him  upon  earth.  "  How  can  we 
tell  what  Muriel  was  enduring  just  now  ?  One  cannot 
altogether  stifle  one's  heart-beats,  and  if  she  was  bidding 
an  eternal  farewell  to  the  first  love  of  her  life,  we  should 
feel  nothing  but  pity  for  her." 

He  is  not  entirely  sure  of  the  genuineness  of  the  picture 
he  has  conjured  up  for  her  comfort,  but  he  dreads  her 
dwelling  too  strongly  on  the  fear  that  has  evidently  taken 
possession  of  her.  And  in  truth  Muriel's  ghastly  face, 
and  strained  attitude  might  as  readily  belong  to  the  guilty 
woman,  as  to  her  who  is  forever  renouncing  the  one 
sweet  treasure  of  her  past. 

"  Oh  !  that  I  could  dare  believe  you,"  murmurs  Margery, 
sobbingly.  "  But  my  heart  misgives  me  !  " 

Nevertheless  she  is  comforted  in  a  measure,  and  pres- 
ently enters  the  house  again  with  him,  unhappy  still,  but 
soothed  and  softened,  and  with  a  vague  recognition  of  the 
fact  that  his  tenderness  has  been  very  pleasant  to  her. 
All  joy  to  be  derived  from  her  evening  is,  however,  gone, 
and  she  subsides  languidly  into  a  fauteuil  in  an  anteroom 
to  wait  with  listless  patience  for  the  moment  when  Wil- 
helmina  will  summon  her  to  cloak  herself  and  accompany 
her  home.  Of  two  things  she  remains  ignorant,  that  Mrs. 
Daryl  had  been  standing  near  the  entrance  by  which  she 
regained  the  ball-room,  and  had  noticed  with  wonder  the 
lingering  traces  of  distress  upon  her  face,  and  that  Lady 
Branksmere  had  followed  hard  upon  her  footsteps,  and 
had  re-entered  the  house  almost  as  she  did,  and  by  the 
same  route. 

Muriel  had  caught  sight  of  her  sister  on  her  homeward 
way,  and  had  told  herself  she  never  could  be  devoutly 
grateful  enough  that  the  girl  had  not  chanced  to  see  her 
at  the  fountain,  as  she  stood  there  transfixed  with  horror 
of  herself,  with  the  first  terrible  touch  of  despair  upon  her 
face.  That  Margery  had  seen,  and  judged  blindly  but 
correctly  of  the  miserable  truth,  did  not  reveal  itself  to 
her.  But  even  now  as  she  steps  again  into  the  brilliant 
glare  of  the  lamps  she  looks  round  nervously,  for  the 
slender  lissome  figure  of  the  girl,  and  knows  a  sense  of 
relief  when  her  eyes  fail  to  meet  it. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  195 

Wilhelmina  she  greets  with  a  friendly  smile,  and,  hardly 
pausing  to  notice  her  expression  (which,  however,  is 
worthy  of  thought),  moves  on  to  where  the  lace  draperies 
of  the  windows  form  a  frame  for  her.  Staines,  coming  to 
a  standstill  behind  her,  looks  round  him,  and  in  turn  meets 
Mrs.  Daryl's  rather  impressive  gaze. 

"Take  care!"  she  whispers  in  a  curious  voice  ;  "you 
remember  our  compact.  I  will  be  silent  only  so  long  as 
you  give  me  no  cause  to  speak." 

Elevated  by  the  sense  of  triumph  that  is  still  warm  with- 
in him,  he  disdains  all  answer  to  this  warning,  only  salu- 
ting her  with  an  almost  defiant  and  certainly  ironical  bow. 

"  As  you  will,"  returns  she,  still  in  a  low  tone,  "but  at 
least  remember  you  are  warned  !  " 

He  laughs  insolently,  and  flicks  from  his  sleeve  with  an 
unembarrassed  air  a  small  particle  of  dust.  Something  in 
his  manner  strikes  cold  to  the  heart  of  Wilhelmina.  Is  he 
so  sure  then  ?  Will  her  interference  be  of  no  use  ?  Has 
it  gone  so  far  as  that  ?  It  seems  to  her  at  this  moment 
that  the  other  woman  is  nothing  to  her,  but  Margery,  she 
will  suffer.  The  memory  of  the  pretty  white  face  that  had 
passed  her  a  few  minutes  ago,  returns  to  Mrs.  Daryl  with  a 
vividness  that  is  actual  pain.  The  girl's  tender  heart  will 
be  racked  and  torn  for  no  fault  of  her  own,  but  because 
of— 

She  becomes  conscious  that  Staines  is  still  gazing  at  her, 
with  that  mocking  smile  upon  his  lips,  and  with  a  last 
glance  at  him,  so  full  of  scorn  and  hatred  that  it  should 
have  warned  him  though  her  words  failed,  she  falls  back 
once  more  into  the  shadow  of  the  window. 

Staines,  moving  up  to  Lady  Branksmere's  side,  addresses 
her  eagerly.  No  syllable  had  passed  between  them  as  they 
walked  in  a  strange  silence  back  from  the  fountain,  but 
now  he  ventures  to  speak. 

"  At  least  do  me  the  justice  to  understand  I  did  not  mean 
to  offend  you,"  he  says  in  a  low  tone,  replete  with  humility. 

"What  is  offence?"  muses  she,  wearily.  "No  one,  it 
seems  to  me,  has  power  to  hurt  me,  save  I  myself.  Yes," 
turning  her  large  eyes  fully  upon  him,  "  I  exonerate  you 
from  all  blame." 

Her  generosity  should  have  disarmed  him  at  least  for 
the  moment  ;  but  such  vulgar  sentiments  are  unknown  to 
him. 

"  Ah  !  To  be  sure  of  your  forgiveness,"  he  murmurs, 
eagerly.  To  her,  his  eagerness  is  but  a  form  of  honest, 


196  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

lingering  regret,  and  her  eyes  grow  softer,  kinder  as  she 
watches  him. 

"  Be  sure  then,"  she  says,  very  gently. 

"  Give  me  a  proof,"  entreats  he.  "  To-morrow,  the  others 
are  all  going  to  the  tennis  affair  at  Lady  Blounts.  Are 
you,  too,  going  ?  " 

"  No  ! "  with  a  surprised  glance  ;  "  I  have  decided  against 
it  long  ago.  Tennis  bores  me.  But  what  has  that  to  do 
with " 

"To  assure  me  of  your  pardon,"  interrupts  he,  quickly, 
"say  you  will  permit  me,  too,  to  set  aside  the  invitation 
for  to-morrow,  and  to  accompany  you  instead  in  your  after- 
noon walk.  I  feel  that  I  have  sinned  in  your  sight.  That 
you  might  in  time  learn  to  look  askance  at  me  ;  and  all 
such  fears  mean  death  !  But  if  the  coming  hours  hold  out 
to  me  some  hope,  I  shall  surmount  my  fears  ;  I  shall  know 
there  is  still  life  for  me.  Believe  me,  I  shall  not  sin  again  !  " 

His  whole  manner  is  so  deferential,  so  humble,  so  mild, 
that  she  is  touched  by  it. 

"To-night  was  a  mistake,  certainly,"  she  says  ;  "but,  as 
I  have  already  told  you,  I  absolve  you  from  all  blame. 
Yes  ;  to-morrow,  if  you  wish,  you  can  walk  with  me." 

She  sighs.  Indeed  all  through  her  manner  there  is  a 
suspicion  of  mental  fatigue.  Turning  her  face  from  him 
she  looks  listlessly  around  her,  and  as  her  eyes  travel  from 
wall  to  wall,  she  becomes  at  last  aware  that  Branksmere  is 
watching  her  from  a  distant  doorway,  with  a  burning,  im- 
movable gaze. 

She  starts  visibly,  and  is  conscious  of  growing  nervous 
and  unsettled  beneath  it.  She  compels  herself  to  sever 
her  glance  from  his,  but  presently  is  drawn  back  to  him  in 
spite  of  herself,  to  find  he  has  withdrawn  his  scrutiny  and 
is  now  apparently  wrapt  in  contemplation  of  something  at 
the  farthest  end  of  the  hall.  There  is,  however,  a  set  ex- 
pression about  his  firmly  closed  lips,  suggestive  of  possi- 
bilities hardly  wise  to  develop  before  an  admiring  public, 
and  a  certain  rigidity  of  jaw  that  should  be  marked  dan- 
gerous. 

He  had  been  aware  that  the  flowers  his  wife  held  were 
not  those  sent  to  her  by  him  from  the  moment  she  had 
emerged  from  the  cloak-room,  but  he  had  been  far  from 
imagining  whose  gift  they  were,  until  enlightened  in  a 
charmingly  airy  and  casual  manner  by  Madame  von  Thirsk 
somewhat  later  on.  To  the  ordinary  observer  it  would 
hardly  appear  that  Branksmere  was  a  careful  husband,  yet 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  197 

the  ordinary  observer  would  probably  have  been  aston- 
ished, could  he  know  with  what  precision  every  movement 
of  his  wife  is  known  to  him.  And  just  now  he  is  chafing 
silently  beneath  the  knowledge  that  Muriel  has  spent  the 
last  hour  in  Staines'  undisputed  society,  amid  the  roman- 
tic accessories  of  a  moonlit  garden. 

A  very  tumult  of  mixed  passions  is  swaying  him.  That 
she  shall  give  him  an  explanation  he  is  determined.  But 
not  now.  Not  to-night.  He  has  written  to  her,  and  con- 
sidering to-night's  work  she  will  hardly  dare  deny  him  the 
interview  he  has  demanded  on  the  morrow.  Already  the 
night  is  far  spent.  In  a  few  short  hours  he  will  be  face  to 
face  with  her,  and  will  get  an  answer  to  the  questions  that 
are  clamoring  for  utterance. 

Perhaps  he  is  hardly  aware  with  what  strange  earnest- 
ness his  wife  is  perusing  his  countenance.  His  dark  eyes 
are  half  closed  and  sullen,  and  there  is  a  cruelty  about  his 
compressed  lips  that  is  almost  murderous.  Muriel,  read- 
ing him,  sees  something  about  him  that  warns  her  it  will 
scarcely  be  wise  to  bring  herself  into  prominence  in  his 
sight  so  long  as  she  has  Staines  in  her  train,  but  a  mad  fit 
of  wilfulness  is  upon  her,  and  a  longing  to  sound  him — to 
compel  him  to  answer  her — to  see  if  the  fire  so  unmistaka- 
bly smouldering  within  him  will  burst  at  her  voice  into  a 
flame,  drives  her  to  reach  and  address  him. 

"  It  is  so  warm  here,  it  stifles  me  !  "  she  says  to  Staines, 
who  has  been  looking  in  a  contrary  direction  to  hers,  and 
has  not  seen  Branksmere  in  the  crowd  in  the  doorway. 
"Come  into  the  hall." 

She  moves  slowly  through  the  thronged  room  toward 
the  place  where  her  husband  stands,  but  as  she  reaches  it, 
she  sees  he  has  quitted  his  position,  and  either  because  of 
her  coming,  or  for  some  other  more  ordinary  reason,  is  now 
moving  indolently  away  fw»m  her,  to  the  right,  toward 
some  disused  rooms,  not  got  up  in  festive  array,  that  still,  by 
means  of  the  balcony  outside,  have  access  to  the  ball-room. 

Possessed  by  her  one  idea,  now  grown  obstinate,  she 
follows  him  with — Staines  always  beside  her — into  a  side 
room  half  lit  and  void  of  decoration,  that  had  been  origi- 
nally intended  to  make  an  additional  boudoir,  but  at  the 
last  had  been  discarded  as -superfluous.  There  is  a  good 
deal  of  useless  twine  and  wire  flung  into  the  corners,  and 
almost  in  the  centre  of  the  floor  a  heavy  bar  of  iron  lies, 
that  had  been  thrown  there,  presumably,  when  the  work- 
men had  found  no  further  use  for  it. 


198  LADY  BKANA'SMERR. 

Lady  Branksmerc,  not  seeing  it  in  the  dim  light,  catches 
her  foot  awkwardly  in  it,  and  stumbles.  She  sways  ner- 
vously, and  puts  out  her  arms  as  if  with  an  involuntary 
demand  for  help  ;  a  little  rounded  "  Oh  !  "  of  alarm  breaks 
from  her  lips. 

With  an  exclamation,  Staines  .springs  forward  and 
catches  her.  His  fingers  close  warmly  round  her  lovely 
naked  arm,  he  has  forgotten  everything  but  her,  even  the 
dark  shades  in  the  lower  part  of  the  room.  He  is  rudely 
awakened  to  the  present,  by  an  arm  that,  coming  between 
him  and  Lady  Branksmere,  hurls  him  backward  to  where 
the  wall  checks  and  supports  him. 

When  he  recovers  himself,  it  is  to  find  Branksmerc  star- 
ing at  him  with  an  unpleasantly  savage  longing  on  his 
dark,  swarthy  face.  Staines  goes  down  before  that  look, 
and  stands  panting  heavily,  against  the  friendly  wall. 

Lady  Branksmere  has  shaken  herself  free  from  her  hus- 
band's grasp,  and  has  moved  back  from  him  with  a  slow, 
recoiling  motion.  She  has  thrown  up  her  small,  queenly 
head,  and  is  regarding  him  fixedly.  Her  lips  are  pale  and 
parted,  and  her  breath  comes  through  them  painfully  ;  but 
her  gaze  is  curiously  steady,  and  in  the  large  deep  eyes 
that  burn  into  his  there  is  scorn,  contempt,  and  hatred  ;  but 
no  fear  ! 

Not  a  word  is  spoken.  A  strange  horrible  silence  seems 
to  oppress  all  three.  At  length,  when  it  has  grown  almost 
beyond  endurance,  Branksmere  breaks  it.  He  bursts  into 
a  harsh,  grating  laugh. 

"  I  fear,  Captain  Staines,  that  my  interference  was  rather 
a  rough  one,"  he  says,  lightly,  the  dangerous  devil  still 
lurking  in  his  eyes.  "  But  when  you  remember  my  excess 
of  zeal  arose  out  of  my  anxiety  for  Lady  Branksmere's 
safety,  I  feel  sure  you  will  pardon  my  seeming  discourtesy. 
One  or  two  old  world  beliefs  still  cling  to  me.  I  was  ab- 
surd enough  to  fancy,"  with  a  mocking  smile,  "  that  I,  as 
her  husband,  was  the  one  to  rescue  her  in — a  crisis  such  as 
this." 

In  deference  to  the  "  lurking  devil,"  which  is  still  dis- 
agreeably en  evidence,  Captain  Staines  bows  an  acknowledg- 
ment of  this  curiously  worded  apology. 

"  I  had  forgotten  the  strength  of  my  arm.  I  did  not 
hurt  you,  I  trust?"  says  Branksmere,  with  a  laugh,  slow 
and  cruel,  as  he  watches  the  other's  discomfiture.  Is  there 
a  faint  threat  in  his  words?  A  warning  of  what  the  future 
may  contain  for  the  lover  who  shall  dare  to  come  between 


• 
LADY  BRANKSMERE.  199 

him  and  his  peace  ?     He  removes   his  gaze  slowly  from 
Staines  and  bends  it  on  his  wife — who  returns  it,  haughtily. 

"You  have  escaped  this  time,"  he  says  slowly.  "But  if 
you  will  permit  me  to  advise,  I  should  recommend  you  to 
avoid  unfrequented  places  in  the  future.  Beaten  paths  are 
best.  And one  may  trip  once  too  often!  " 

It  would  be  impossible  to  describe  the  rage  in  her  eyes 
as  he  finishes  this  speech. 

"  Sound  advice,"  she  returns  in  a  low,  choking  voice. 
"  May  I  hope,  my  lord,  that  you  yourself  will  take  it  to 
heart  ?  " 

A  pale  smile  widens  her  lips  for  an  instant ;  a  very  ghost 
of  a  smile.  Then,  as  if  by  magic,  her  whole  humor 
changes,  and  she  turns  to  Staines  with  the  old  calm,  list- 
lessness  full  upon  her. 

"  This  way  evidently  leads  no  whither,"  she  says,  indif- 
ferently. "Let  us  return  to  civilization." 

She  sweeps  leisurely  toward  the  door  by  which  she  had 
entered,  and  once  again  enters  the  world  of  light  without. 
Slowly,,  with  an  unmoved  front,  she  passes  down  the  long 
cool  hall,  dotted  here  and  there  with  groups  either  stand- 
ing or  sitting,  wrho  have  gladly  escaped  from  the  heated 
atmosphere  within,  to  breathe  more  freely  in  the  larger 
space  without ;  past  statues  gleaming  from  their  artificial 
bowers  of  sparkling  greenery  ;  past  Margery,  pale,  with 
downcast  eyes  ;  past  Lord  Primrose  in  a  shady  nook  pro- 
posing once  again  to  Lady  Anne,  who  once  again  is  giving 
him  an  evasive  answer,  the  memory  of  "poor  Arthur" 
being  present  with  her  to-night  ;  past  all  these  and  many 
more  goes  Lady  Branksmere,  with  Staines  always  beside 
her,  and  always  with  head  erect  and  a  calm  brow,  though 
in  her  soul  is  raging  a  tumult  of  passionate  wrath  that  in- 
creases rather  than  dies  as  the  moments  go  by. 


CHAPTER   XXXI. 

Now  they  interpret  motions,  looks,  and  eyes, 
At  every  word  a  reputation  dies. 

MRS.  AMYOT  looks  up  as  Lady  Branksmere  brushes  past 
the  cosey  nook  that  contains  her,  and  regards  her  curiously. 

"She  is  as  impassive  as  a  sphinx,"  she  says,  a  little  en- 
viously. 


200  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Scarcely,  tres  chere  ;  she  is  safe  to  break  out  later  on," 
murmurs  Mrs.  Vyner,  hopefully,  who  has  sunk  upon  the 
lounge  beside  her  while  waiting  for  their  respective  part- 
ners to  bring  them  the  ices  for  which  they  pine.  "  Take 
heart !  " 

"  If  that  be  so  she  will  find  herself  presently  the  centre 
figure  of  an  imbroglio  that  I  for  one  should  prefer  steering 
clear  of.  There  is  something  odd  about  Branksmere's  eyes. 
Ever  noticed  it  ?  " 

"Neither  that  nor  anything  else  about  him.  Instinct 
long  since  warned  me  he  doesn't  admire  me,  and  I  never 
waste  my  time." 

"  I  am  afraid  your  little  story  about  Lady  Branksmere 
and  Staines,  unlike  the  run  of  its  order,  has  some  founda- 
tion." 

"  What  are  you  afraid  of  ?" 

"  Well ;  I  should  be  sorry,  for  one  thing,  if  matters  went 
too  far.  I  like  Branksmere,  and  I  tolerate  her,  though  I 
grant  you  she  is  at  times  a  degree  impossible." 

"  If  you  said  she  is  on  rare  occasions  a  degree  possible,  I 
might  follow  you.  As  it  is —  I  have  often  warned  you, 
my  good  child,  that  those  quiet  ones  are  never  to  be  trusted, 
and  I  expect  we  shall  have  an  explosion  at  the  castle  by 
next  autumn,  before  which  dynamite  would  pale.  But 
hush  !  here  comes  the  colonel,  and  I  know  no  one  "- 
glancing  at  the  advancing  veteran  who  calls  her  wife — 
"who  so  cordially  detests  scandal  as  that  priceless  fossil.'' 

"  Except  me,"  supplements  Mrs.  Amyot,  with  a  frank 
laugh,  "when  it  is  directed  against  myself." 

"I  never  feel  like  that,"  smiles  Mrs.  Vyner,  serenely, 
"conscious  virtue  would  prevent  me.  The  knowledge  that 
the  scandal  was  undeserved  (as  naturally  it  would  be) 
would,  in  my  case,  raise  me  above  all  such  weak  fancies." 

"  Ah  !  "  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  who  seems  amused. 

"  If  the  colonel  means  coming  I  wish  he'd  do  it,  and  get 
it  over,"  exclaims  Mrs.  Vyner,  presently,  in  a  disgusted 
tone.  "  He  was  steering  for  us  with  all  sails  set,  and  scold- 
ing in  his  eye  a  moment  ago,  and  now  he  has  come  to 
anchor  by  Lady  Anne.  How  I  wish  she  would  keep  him 
forever.  There  is  a  present,  now,  I  would  make  her  with- 
out regret." 

"  It  has  always  been  a  matter  of  speculation  to  me  why 
on  earth  you  married  him." 

"  He  has  a  few  pence."  returns  her  friend,  mildly.  "  And 
I  always  hope  he  won't  die  until  he  has  come  in  for  the 


LADY  BRAXKSMERE.  201 

Bella! r  title  and  diamonds,  and  made  me,  '  my  lady.'  After 
that  the  dear  old  man  may  abscond  as  soon  as  he  likes,  for 
me.  Besides,  I  don't  think  there  was  any  one  else  just 
then." 

"There  was  always  Tom." 

"  Tom  !  "  with  an  accent  of  unqualified,  if  lazy,  scorn. 
"  I  wonder  if  Tom  could  tell  you  at  this  instant  whether  he 
lias  five  pounds  or  five  thousand  in  the  world.  Now  what 
under  heaven  should  I  have  done  with  Tom  ?  He  is  all 
very  well  I  grant  you,  as  this,  or  as  that,  but  as  a  husband  ! 
No,  thank  you  ! — For  the  rest,"  with  an  unaffected  yawn, 
"  I  am  positive,  if  you  were  to  analyze  it,  one  man  is  as 
good  as  another." 

"There  is  a  noble  broadness  about  your  views  that  one 
would  do  well  to  imbibe,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  admiringly, 
who  seems,  indeed,  delighted  with  her.  "I  own,  myself, 
to  a  silly  prejudice  in  favor  of  youth,  but  no  doubt  that 
is  a  weakness.  Ah  !  Here  comes  your  warrior  at  last. 
And  with  what  a  lowering  visage.  He  looks  as  if  he  were 
about  to  order  out  one  of  his  native  regiments  for  instant 
execution." 

"  He  is  only  going  to  order  me  home.  Don't  be  alarmed. 
I  shan't  go,"  says  Mrs.  Vyner,  smoothly.  "  He  always 
makes  a  point  of  removing  me  when  he  thinks  I'm  having 
a  good  time,  but  I've  learned  by  this  how  to  square  him.  I 
confess  I  have  been  doing  pretty  well  to-night,  and  he  has 
a  perfect  talent  for  knowing  when  I'm  enjoying  myself." 

"  I  wonder  you  are  not  a  little  afraid  of  him,  there  is 
something  about  his  under  jaw — that — 

"  No.  I  am  not  afraid.  I  have  secured  myself.  You 
know  that  cousin  of  his,  Elfrida  West  ?  I  wormed  a  little 
secret  of  his  out  of  her — a  secret  belonging  to  his  salad 
days,  and  consequently  to  the  last  century — that  will  stand 
to  me,  if  he  ever  dares  to  twit  me  with  any  of  my  short  com- 
ings." 

"  She  betrayed  him  ?" 

"  She  sold  him  for  forty  pounds.  I  paid  her  that  down 
for  it.  She  was  hard  up  at  the  time.  She  always  is  hard 
up,  that  poor  Elfrida  !  and  her  woman  had  given  her  to 
understand  that  she  would  wait  no  longer  for  her  bill.  So 
she  gave  away  the  colonel." 

"  What  a  bore  those  dressmakers  are  ;  one  would  think 
one  could  have  money  for  them  the  moment  they  choose 
to  ask  for  it." 

"  I  was  immensely  oblip-ed  to   Elfrida's  woman  for  all 


202  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

that.  Out  of  simple  gratitude  I  gave  her  quite  a  large 
order  the  week  later.  She  arranged  me,  you  see.  Yes, 
doesrit  the  old  man  look  furious  !  Watch  how  he  tries  to 
make  mincemeat  of  his  mustache.  What  has  he  heard, 
now,  I  wonder  ?  "  There  is  not  an  atom  of  concern  or 
consternation  in  her  tone  ;  only  a  suppressed  amusement. 

"Perhaps  he  is  tired/'  suggests  Mrs.  Amyot,  kindly. 
"  Borne  down  by  the  burden  and  heat  of  the  evening,  he 
is  naturally  anxious  to  get  home." 

"  He  is  unnaturally  anxious,  you  mean,  to  spoil  my  sport. 
To  see  me  happy  is  to  see  him  regularly  on  the  champ. 
He  is,  I  assure  you,  the  very  dearest  old  thing  ! "  says  the 
colonel's  wife,  gaily. 

"I  hope  you  don't  wrong  him,"  persists  Mrs.  Amyot, 
earnestly,  who  has  an  affection  for  Mrs.  Vyner  that,  to  tell 
the  truth  of  the  latter,  is  honestly  returned.  "  He  is  old, 
you  know  ;  he  may  be  sleepy." 

"  He  is'old  enough,  in  all  conscience.  One  might,  per- 
haps, indeed,  say  he  is  old  enough  to  be  once  again  young 
enough  to  be  eager  for  an  early  couch  ;  but  that  is  not  his 
ailment." 

Mrs.  Amyot  gives  in. 

"  Well,  I  daresay,  though  a  very  charming  man,  he  is  a 
little  wearying  at  times,"  she  says,  leniently. 

"He  is  about  the  most  unmitigated  nuisance  I  know," 
returns  the  charming  man's  wife  promptly,  with  a  sim- 
plicity truly  edifying. 

He  has  come  up  to  her  by  this  time,  and  now  she  throws 
back  her  picturesque  head  against  the  satin  cushion  of  her 
chair,  and  turns  up  to  his  scowling  one,  a  face  that  actually 
beams  all  over  with  an  affectionate  smile.  Even  the  keen- 
est observer  could  not  detect  a  flaw  in  it. 

He  is  a  tall,  soldierly-looking  man,  at  least  thirty-five 
years  older  than  she  is,  with  an  imposing  mustache,  and 
an  irritable  suspicious  eye.  He  seems  now  just  a  trifle 
unimpressed  by  her  amiability. 

"What's  .the  hour,  eli  ?  Not  going  to  stay  here  all 
night,  eh  ?  eh  ? " 

"  It  is  dull,  isn't  it  ?"  responds  Mrs.  Vyner  with  a  yawn 
that  is  weak  with  weariness.  "  I  had  hoped,  darling,  see- 
ing you  so  gay  all  night  that  you  had  not  felt  it,  but  as  for 
me — I  am  positively  done  to  death." 

"Humph  !"  says  the  colonel,  glaring  at  her. 

"  Are  you  coming  home  now  ?  These  mixed  assemblies 
are  very  trying,  don't  you  think  ?  The  butcher,  and  the 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  203 

baker,  and  the  candlestick  maker,  you  know,  or  at  least 
by  their  equivalents,  in  the  rear  of  your  own  set.  Don't 
let  me  hurry  you,  Douglas,  but  I  confess  I  should  be  glad 
to  put  a  termination  to  this  dreadful  evening." 

"  M — m — m  ?  "  says  the  colonel,  running  up  quite  a  full 
gamut  of  suspicious  query.  "It  didn't  occur  to  me  that 
you  were  dull  to-night." 

"  T  hope  I  shall  never  so  far  forget  myself  as  to  look  en- 
nuyte,"  smiles  Mrs.  Vyner,  sweetly.  "But  \.oyou"  with 
an  upward  glance  full  of  the  prettiest  confidence;  "the 
truth  surely  may  be  confessed.  I  have  endured  agonies 
since  I  entered  this  house.  Indeed  I  should  say  plainly 
that  I  have  been  insufferably  bored  only" — with  an  ador- 
able smile — "  I  know  that  would  vex  you,  because  it  would 
not  be  nice  to  the  poor  country.  It  might  hurt  it  if  it 
came  to  know.  But  really  these  mixed  entertainments," 
dolefully,  "are  very  trying,  and  this  one,"  with  a  disdain- 
ful move,  "is  even  a  trifle  more  higgledy-piggledy  than  its 
fellows.  Oh  !  yes.  I  have  been  dull.  Very  !  " 

She  sighs  admirably,  and  shrugs  her  shoulders  with  a 
little  pout. 

"The  fact  of  its  being-  mixed  is  a  special  reason  why  we 
should  be  careful  to  cast  no  slight  upon  it,"  returns  the 
colonel,  severely,  with  a  pompous  updrawing  of  his 
starched  figure.  He  has  changed  his  tune,  having  fallen 
into  the  net  prepared  for  him.  "These — er — strange 
people  have  their  sensibilities  as  well  as  we  others.  Sel- 
fishness, and — er — open  disregard  of  the  feeling  of  those 
not  quite  in  our  class  are  defects  that  should  \&  crushed!  " 
He  gazes  sternly  at  her.  As  if  overwhelmed  by  this  re- 
proach Mrs.  Vyner  subsides  gracefully  behind  her  fan, 
from  the  shelter  of  which  barricade  she  casts  a  mirthful 
glance  at  Mrs.  Amyot. 

"You  are  always  right,"  she  murmurs,  presently,  in  a 
small  submissive  voice.  "But  I  do  so  want  to  go  home." 

"  I  see  the  duchess  has  not  yet  gone.  Perhaps,  to  avoid 
even  the  appearance  of  giving  offence,  we  had  better  stay 
another  hour." 

He  gives  himself  an  air  of  determination  and  marches 
off  with  his  most  military  stiffness. 

"  Dear  old  man  !  "  breathes  his  wife,  tenderly,  following 
his  departing  figure  with  a  lingering  glance  replete  with 
feeling — of  a  kind.  "  How  generous  !  how  noble-minded  ! 
how  self-sacrificing  he  is  !  See  how  willing  he  is  to  resign 
his  own  comfort  and  linger  on  here  in  a  social  martyrdom 


204  LADY  BRAXKSMERE. 

for  an  hour  longer,  now  that  he  believes  that  I  am — not 
enjoying  myself  !  Ah,  Sir  Robert,  my  ice  at  last  ?  What 
a  time  you  have  been  absent.  I  quite  thought  you  had 
been  making  it." 


CHAPTER  XXXII. 

Who  purposely  cheats  his  friends,  would  cheat  his  God. 

THE  heavy,  hot  silence  that  is  lying  over  every  thing  out 
of  doors,  seems  to  have  rushed  inward  and  wrapt  all  the 
house  in  its  languor.  Every  available  curtain  has  been 
drawn  to  exclude  the  tyrant  sun.  The  halls  and  galleries 
are  dim  with  a  soft  twilight  gloom.  The  drawing-rooms 
and  boudoirs  are  suggestive  of  growing  night,  though  it 
is  still  early  in  the  afternoon.  The  huge  bunches  of  lily 
of  the  valley  are  drooping  and  dying  in  their  Chelsea 
bowls.  The  tall  tree-ferns  are  languishing.  The  dogs  lie 
upon  the  marble  pavements  panting  for  air,  their  mourn- 
ful eyes  looking  liquid  reproach  at  Nature,  their  red 
tongues  hanging  helplessly  from  their  jaws. 

The  stillness  that  reigns  all  round  is  great  enough  to  be 
felt  ;  no  footsteps  fall  upon  the  tessellated  floors,  no  gay 
laughter  rings  through  the  deserted  gardens.  They  have 
all  started  on  their  fourteen  miles  drive  through  the  richly- 
wooded  country  to  the  tennis  match  at  Lady  Blount's.  All 
save  Lady  Anne,  who  has  gone  down  to  the  village  to  see 
the  Vicar's  wife — a  distant  connection  and  a  crony  of  hers 
— and  Lady  Branksmere  and— Staines. 

Even  the  poor  old  Primrose  woman  has  gone  forth,  true 
to  her  colors.  That  she  ought  to  have  been  in  her  bed 
repenting  her  last  night's  fatigue  goes  without  saying  ; 
but,  like  the  gallant  old  soul  she  is,  she  has  made  a  splen- 
did struggle  in  the  cause  of  Mammon,  and  has  sallied 
forth  to-day  to  court  fashion  once  again.  Rather  than 
desert  the  past  she  has  so  bravely  defended  for  over  half 
a  century,  she  has  braved  the  terrors  of  the  miles  and  the 
stony  roads  and  is  now  jogging  along  the  sultry  highways 
and  bowling  through  the  scented  lanes  as  though  age  and 
she  have  nothing  in  common.  Not  that  the  miles  she 
travels  can  seem,  long  to  her,  as  she  is  at  this  moment  lost 
in  slumber  in  a  corner  of  the  carriage,  snoring  frankly  with 


LADY  BRANKSMEKE.  205 

her  bonnet  all  askew,  to  the  undisguised  delight  of  Mrs. 
Atnyot,  who,  with  Halkett  and  Tommy  Paulyn,  have  been 
told  off  to  take  care  of  her. 

Over  Branksmere  the  stillness  remains  unbroken,  save 
for  the  discordant  scream  of  the  strutting  peacocks  upon 
the  terraces  without,  and  the  distant,  drowsy  cooing  of  the 
cushat  doves  in  the  woods  far  down  in  the  valley.  At  last 
there  comes  a  rustle  of  soft  garments  in  the  dim  hall,  the 
click  of  a  light  footstep,  and  one  of  the  big  dogs  rising 
lazily  gives  himself  a  mighty  shake,  and  goes  to  meet  his 
mistress.  Almost  at  the  same  instant  a  side  door  is  slowly 
opened,  and  Captain  Staines  emerges  from  the  gloom 
beyond. 

"  Good  morning,  or  rather  good  evening,  now,"  he  says, 
in  a  carefully  careless  tone,  taking  her  proffered  hand, 
which  feels  warm  and  tremulous  within  his  grasp.  Under 
his  idle  air  his  nature  is  all  alert,  and  he  scans  her  features 
warily  to  take  note  of  any  confusion  that  may  color  them. 
But  she  is  as  cold,  as  indifferent,  as  self-possessed  as 
though  last  night's  occurrence  had  never  been.  If  he  is 
disappointed  in  his  search  for  knowledge  his  face  does 
not  betray  him. 

"  True,"  returns  she,  as  though  the  thought  has  been 
forced  her.  "  It  is  already  noon."  Her  low,  tragic  voice, 
soft  and  sad,  seems  in  unison  with  the  hour,  the  day,  and 
the  solemn  silence  and  dimness  of  the  place. 

"  Your  headache  is  better  ?  "  asks  he,  hopefully.  "  I 
knew  the  intolerable  heat  last  night  was  bound  to  knock 
you  up.  The  arrangements  were  far  from  perfect.  They 
have  made  a  prisoner  of  you  all  the  morning." 

"As  a  rule  neither  heat  nor  cold  affect  rne — in  fact, 
nothing  does,  much,"  replies  she  calmly,  ignoring,  or  not 
seeing  the  motive  of  his  speech.  "  But  I  confess  my  head 
was  a  trouble  to  me  to-day." 

"  I  have  been  thinking  that  perhaps  half  an  hour  or  so 
on  the  island — you  know  how  fresh  it  always  is  there — 
together  with  the  row  across,  would  do  you  good,"  says 
Staines,  in  an  ordinarily  friendly  tone. 

"  There  is  scarcely  time,  is  there  ?"  She  looks  at  him 
absently,  as  though  it  is  a  matter  of  indifference  to  her 
whether  she  goes  there  or  anywhere  else,  as  indeed  it  is. 
She  glances  up  at  the  clock.  "  It  is  now  very  nearly  four. 
Those  people"  (smiling)  "will  be  coming  home  again  and 
will  expect  me  to  be  here  to  give  them  their  tea." 

"  Tut  !  that  will   not  be    for  hours,"   retorts  he,  gaily. 


206  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Not  until  you  have  had  time  to  be  there  and  back  again, 
over  and  over.  Free  your  conscience  on  that  score.  1 
promise  you  shall  be  back  here  before  they  are." 

"  That,  of  course  ;  I  wonder  if  I  could  get  to  the  island 
and  home  again  in  two  hours  ?  Now  that  you  have  put  it 
into  my  head,  I  feel  as  if  the  lake  is  the  one  thing  I  desire. 
Oh,  for  a  breeze  !  And  there  might  be  a  small  one  there." 
She  presses  her  hand  wearily  to  her  forehead. 

"A  foregone  conclusion,"  cries  he,  gaily.  "  Let  us  start 
at  once  then,  if  your  return  at  the  time  you  say  is  im- 
perative." 

Beneath  his  seeming  bonhomie  there  is  lying  a  strong 
eagerness.  Time  is  moving  away  from  them,  and  any 
moment  now  may  bring  Branksmere  home  to  keep  the 
appointment  with  Muriel,  of  which  she  is  ignorant,  and 
which  Staines  has  pledged  himself  to  prevent. 

"  Come,  then,"  she  says,  languidly,  moving  toward  the 
open  hall  door,  being  already  prepared  for  an  afternoon 
stroll,  with  the  help  of  a  huge  hat  with  heavy  waving 
plumes  and  a  pair  of  gloves  that  reach  up  to  her  elbows, 
and  a  big  white  umbrella  that  breathes  defiance  at  old  Sol. 

The  walk  through  the  shady  wood  beneath  the  scented 
pines  is  rich  with  a  sweet  fragrance.  The  widening  leaves 
are  casting  shadows  on  the  mossy  turf  beneath,  and  the 
oppressive  heat  of  the  more  open  land  is  here  subdued  and 
saddened.  It  is  the  fading  away  of  spring,  the  dawning  of 
summer,  a  season  full  of 

"  Sweet  days  and  roses, 
A  box  where  sweets  compacted  lie," 

and  where  winds  are  hushed,  and  speech  grows  low,  and 
where  a  languorous  noontide  seems  at  one  with  the  happy 
laziness  that  fills  our  blood. 

The  way  has  seemed  neither  long  nor  wearying,  though 
it  has  been  travelled  in  almost  comparative  silence,  and  it 
appears  a  sort  of  surprise  to  Muriel  when  they  at  last 
come  to  its  end  and  emerge  upon  the  borders  of  the  lake, 
where  in  a  picturesque  hut  sits  a  ferryman  during  the 
warm  months  to  row  the  visitors  at  the  castle  to  the  ex- 
quisite little  island  now  basking  in  the  sunshine,  about 
half  a  mile  from  the  shore. 

Stepping  into  the  boat,  Muriel,  with  a  vague  sense  of 
rest  and  pleasure  fell  upon  her — a  rest  that  has  been  un- 
known to  her  for  some  time — draws  off  her  glove  and  lets 


LADY  BKAXh'SMERE.  207 

one  white  slender  hand  drag  idly  through  the  pleasant 
water.  Great  water  flags  touch  her  now  and  then,  and 
many  other  trailing  weeds,  wave-worn  and  drooping  'neath 
the  sun's  hot  glance.  Gaudy  flies  of  every  hue  dance 
lightly  on  the  ripples,  and  farther  out  upon  the  very 
bosom  of  the  lake  the  tremulous  lilies  sway  indolently 
with  each  softest  motion  of  the  wind  or  water. 

Leisurely  the  boatman  plies  his  oar,  and  presently  brings 
them  to  the  tiny  beach  that  belongs  to  the  island.  Still  in 
her  new  dreamy  mood,  Muriel  steps  ashore  and  walks 
away  from  the  boat  and  round  the  little  curve  of  rock  that 
leads  to  the  upper  plateau.  She  has  almost  forgotten  the 
existence  of  Staines  in  this  vague  new  born  peace  of  hers, 
and  is  altogether  unaware  that  he  has  lingered  behind  her 
to  say  a  word  or  two  to  the  ferryman.  Presently,  how- 
ever, as  she  hears  him  hurrying  after  her,  she  comes  back 
to  the  present  with  a  little  start. 

"  You  told  the  man  to  wait,"  she  asks,  anxiously.  "  You 
know  my  stay  here  must  be  short." 

"  I  told  him  that,"  reassuringly.  "  I  warned  him  you 
should  be  home  by  a  certain  hour,  so  I  suppose  it  will  be 
all  right.  Let  us  forget  time  for  the  moment,"  gaily,  "and 
try  to  enjoy  to  the  full  this  delicious  afternoon." 

A  little  trembling  wind  has  arisen,  and  is  blowing  right 
into  their  faces.  It  is  so  blessed  a  thing,  coming  as  it  does 
after  the  intolerable  heat  of  the  morning,  that  Lady  Branks- 
mere,  with  a  quick  sigh  of  delight  sinking  on  the  soft 
sward,  throws  off  her  hat  and  gives  her  burning  forehead 
to  its  cooling  caress. 

Far  away  the  calm  ocean  is  glinting  brightly.  "  Above 
the  soft  sweep  of  the  breathless  bay  "  the  silver  gulls  are 
flying,  hovering,  looking  for  their  fishy  prey.  Inland 
rushes  the  noise  of  the  mysterious  waves  as  they  beat  their 
breasts  against  the  stony  rocks  ! 

And  still  Muriel  sits  here  dreamily  ;  and  still  her  com- 
panion sits  beside  her,  never  addressing  her,  never  striving 
to  break  the  curious  silence  in  which  she  has  enwrapped 
herself,  content  in  the  thought  that  she  is  willing  he  should 
be  with  her.  A  word  here,  an  insinuation  there,  a  careful 
hint,  the  useful  tact  that  teaches  him  when  to  speak  and 
when  to  be  silent — as  on  the  present  occasion — upon  all 
these  powerful  means  Staines  depends  to  win  his  way  with 
her  in  the  end. 

"A  falling  drop,"  says  Lucretius,  "  at  last  will  cave  a 
stone,"  and  in  so  far  Staines  agrees  with  him.  Persever- 


208  LADY  BRAffKSMERE. 

ance,  thorough  and  rigid,  will  win  the  day,  long  after  more 
daring  methods  have  failed. 

The  yellow  haze  that  hung  over  everything  is  now  dying 
away.  Evening  is  declaring  itself.  Muriel's  thoughts, 
whether  they  be  sweet  or  bitter,  are  certainly  all  master- 
ing, as  they  still  keep  her  chained  to  this  island  fastness, 
although  the  day  is  declining,  and  the  first  wild  glory 
of  the  sun  has  departed  :  The  flowers  lift  their  heads  as 
the  great  heat  dies,  and  over  the  lake  the  swallows  dart 
upon  their  homeward  way. 

Perhaps  the  strange  sense  of  unreality  that  belongs  to 
evening  begins  to  oppress  her  now,  because  she  shivers  a 
little  and  lifts  her  head.  Yes  !  Her  calm  hour  has  come 
to  an  end.  She  must  rise  up  and  go  back  to  her  unrest. 
Is  anything  lasting  ?  Is  it  the  cruel  law  that  all  good 
things  must  have  a  speedy  end  ?  And  she  had  been  happy 
here  !  The  skimming  swallows  catch  her  eye  as  they  flit — 
now  so  low  down  upon  the  water  that  almost  their  breasts 
seem  to  touch  it,  now  so  far  above  her  in  the  pale  blue  of 
the  air  that  their  twitterings  cease  to  sound  in  her  ears. 
Their  very  gayety  disheartens  her.  They  are  free  from 
care,  while  she  : 

"Swallow,  my  sister,  O  sister  swallow, 
How  can  thine  heart  be  full  of  the  spring  ? 
A  thousand  summers  are  over  and  dead. 
What  hast  thou  found  in  the  spring  to  follow? 
What  hast  thou  found  in  thine  heart  to  sing? 
What  wilt  thou  do  when  the  summer  is  shed  ? 

Swallow,  my  sister,  O  singing  swallow, 
I  know  not  how  thou  hast  heart  to  sing.1' 

She  sighs  wearily,  and  rises  to  her  feet. 

"Come,  let  us  return,"  she  says,  in  a  low  tone.  "It  is 
already  past  the  hour." 

He  rises,  too,  in  obedience  to  her  commands,  and  she 
going  first  and  he  following  they  arrive  again  at  the  small 
beach.  It  is  deserted,  neither  boat  nor  ferryman  is  to  be 
seen. 

"  How  is  this  ? "  asks  she,  coldly,  looking  round  at  him. 

"  It  is  very  extraordinary — it  is  inconceivable,"  says 
Staines,  gazing  north,  south,  east,  and  west,  with  a  large 
amazement^ in  his  eyes.  "  I  can't  imagine  how  the  fellow 
could  have  misunderstood  me,  and  yet " 

"  You  told  him  to  wait  ?  " 


LADY  BRAXKSMERE.  209 

"  No.  But  I  very  fully  explained  to  him  that  you 
wished  to  be  home  at  a  certain  hour.  I  am  awfully  sorry 
if  any  mistake  of  mine  has  caused ' 

She  stops  him  with  an  impatient  gesture. 

"That  is  of  no  consequence  at  all, "she  says,  contemptu- 
ously. "The  thing  now  to  be  considered  is  what  is  best 
to  be  done." 

"  He  cannot  be  much  longer  away,"  begins  Staines, 
eagerly,  but  again  she  refuses  to  listen.  She  has  taken  out 
her  watch  and  is  examining  it  with  a  frown  of  dismay. 

"  Half-past  five,  already,"  she  exclaims  in  a  low  tone, 
addressing  herself,  as  though  ignorant  or  careless  of  his 
presence.  Indeed,  she  turns  determinedly  away  from  him, 
and  begins  to  pace  up  and  down  the  confined  gravelled 
space  with  angry  uncertain  steps.  She  is  disturbed,  un- 
easy, and  indignant  with  the  man  who,  however  unde- 
signedly,  has  led  her  into  a  position  that  may  be  question- 
able, and  will  certainly  be  termed  imprudent,  if  discovered. 
Any  suspicion  of  Staines  having  purposely  misled  the 
ferryman  as  to  the  real  hour  she  had  named  for  her  return 
is  far  from  her,  but  in  the  first  flush  of  her  annoyance  she 
cannot  altogether  pardon  him  for  having  been  its  cause. 
It  is  hard  to  forgive  the  clumsy  carelessness  that  will  in 
all  probability  make  her  the  cynosure  of  every  eye  when 
she  returns,  at  an  overlate  hour,  to  her  wondering  guests. 

Again  she  looks  at  her  watch.  It  was  now  close  on 
six  o'clock,  and  still  no  sign  of  the  ferryman.  Good 
heavens,  if  he  were  to  forget  to  come  at  all !  If  some  ac- 
cident should  have  happened  to  him  !  As  this  horrible 
thought  suggests  itself  the  blood  surges  up  wildly  into  her 
face,  only  to  leave  it  again  w'hiter  than  before.  What  will 
they  all  say  ?  What  will  be  thought  of  her  by  Mrs.  Vyner, 
with  her  sneering  smile,  by  Mrs.  Amyot  with  her  amused 
one  ?  What  will  be  thought  by Her  teeth  closed  sav- 
agely upon  her  under  lip,  and  she  turns  suddenly  upon 
Staines  with  a  fierce  vehemence,  scorn  and  angry  misery 
within  her  eyes. 

"Do  something  /"  she  cries,  bringing  her  foot  down  im- 
patiently upon  the  ground. 

"  What  can  I  do  ?  "  desperately.  "  All  that  is  left  me  is 
to  tell  you  how  bitterly  I  regret — 

"All  the  regret  of  which  you  could  be  capable  would 
not  get  me  home  a  minute  sooner,"  declares  she,  impetu- 
ously.    "  Why  don't  you  act  ?     Why  do  you  stand  there 
with  that  incapable  look  upon  your  face  ?  Surely  " — with  a 
14 


210  LADY  DRAN'KSMERE. 

feverish  fire  in  her  eyes—"  something  can  be  done.  Then? 
must  be  a  way  of  attracting  the  attention  of  some  one  on. 
the  opposite  shore.  Is  there  no  signal  you  can  make  to 
the  man  ?  He  may  be  there,  he  may  hear  you.  The  day 
— oh  no,"  with  miserable  correction,  "  the  evening  is  so 
still,  that  any  sound  will  carry  that  short  distance.  Try 
something — anything." 

"  There  is  no  need,  the  man  is  coming,"  returns  he,  sul- 
lenly, pointing  across  the  lake  to  where  a  boat  can  be  seen 
pushing  slowly  through  the  water  weeds  that  throng  the 
bank.  Presently  it  is  out  in  the  more  open  water,  and  as 
the  man  is  rowing  vigorously  in  about  ten  minutes  or  so 
he  reaches  them.  Staines  goes  up  to  him. 

"What  do  you  mean  by  being  an  hour  late?"  he  de- 
mands in  a  loud,  angry  key.  He  has  gained  his  object, 
her  interview  with  Branksmere  is  now  an  impossibility, 
and  though  she  will  probably  reach  home  before  the 
others,  this  long,  solitary  ramble  with  him  will  undoubt- 
edly damage  her  in  the  eyes  of  her  husband. 

"I'm  not  late,  sir."  The  man  is  regarding  him  with 
surprise  in  tone  and  glance.  "  It  is  not  yet  six  o'clock." 

"  I  desired  you  to  be  back  here  at  five,  sharp,"  declares 
Staines,  in  a  still  more  distinct  and  angry  voice. 

"  Six,  sir,  begging  your  pardon,"  says  the  man  firmly. 

"Five,  I  told  you!  It  is  unpardonable  her  ladyship 
should  be  subject  to  such  neglect." 

"I  am  very  sorry,  my  lady,"  mutters  the  man,  turning 
to  Muriel  with  a  respectful  air,  cap  in  hand.  "  But  I 
quite  thought  as  how  the  gentleman  had  said  six."  As  he 
speaks  he  glances  at  Staines  with  a  curious,  furtive  air. 
There  is  a  persistency  about  his  manner  that  occurs  to 
Muriel  long  afterward. 

"  You  shouldn't  think,"  says  Staines,  beginning  to  blus- 
ter a  little,  but  Lady  Branksmere  checks  him. 

"  Enough  has  been  said,"  she  decides,  quietly.  "  It  was 
a  mistake  it  appears.  Let  it  rest."  She  sweeps  past  him 
to  the  boat.  "  The  thing  is  to  get  home  now  with  as  little 
more  delay  as  possible." 

The  row  across  the  lake  is  a  silent  one,  and  Muriel 
springs  upon  the  land  with  a  sigh  of  relief.  Staines, 
pressing  half  a  sovereign  into  the  ferryman's  hand,  ac- 
companies her  swiftly  down  the  narrow  woodland  path. 
The  ferryman  gazing  after  him  scratches  his  head  reflec- 
tively. 

"  What's  that  for  now,  I  wonder  ?  "    He  ponders  to  him- 


LA  D  Y^BRA  NKSMERE.  21 1 

self,  staring  at  the  little  gold  coin  upon  his  brown  palm. 
"  He  don't  look  like  a  gent  as  would  be  free  with  his  tin. 
To  keep  silence  is  it  ?  Eh  !  But  I  knew  't  were  six  'e 
said." 

With  hasty  footsteps  Muriel  hurries  home.  Already 
the  god  of  day  has  sunk  behind  the  hills  in  a  red  glory, 
and  twilight  is  coming  up  from  the  sea.  It  is  that  most 
delicious  hour  of  all  the  day,  "  This  hour  dividing  light 
from  dark,"  but  for  Muriel  it  holds  no  charms.  One  ray 
of  comfort  alone  sustains  her  ;  she  remembers  that 
Branksmere  seldom  returns  from  town  until  the  seven 
o'clock  train,  and  surely  she  will  be  safe  in  her  own  room 
before  that.  As  for  the  others  she  may  escape  them. 

She  may,  and  does  for  five  minutes  or  so,  but  Branks- 
mere is  standing  in  one  of  the  open  windows  as  she  and 
Staines  come  down  the  avenue.  Madame  von  Thirsk  is 
sitting  in  a  low  wicker  chair  near  him. 

"Ah  !  "  she  cries,  with  an  impulsive  air  of  relief.  "  Here 
is  Lady  Branksmere,  at  last  !  We  all  know,"  leniently, 
"how  difficult  it  is  to  drag  one's  self  away  from — the 
warmth  of  an  evening  such  as  this  ;  but  I  am  glad," 
with  a.  kindly  intonation,  "that  she  has  managed  to  get 
home  before  the  arrival  of  the  others.  Mrs.  Vyner's 
tongue  is  sharply  pointed." 

She  sighs,  as  if  sorry  for  Mrs.  Vyner's  tongue,  and  ris- 
ing, moves  toward  the  door.  Branksmere  makes  her  no 
reply.  His  eyes  have  met  Muriel's,  and  are  resting  on 
them.  Though  some  distance  separates  them,  both  can 
see  that  the  other's  face  has  grown  strangely  pale. 

After  a  moment  or  so  Branksmere  drops  his  glance  and 
leaves  the  window. 

"That  woman,  again!"  mutters  Muriel  between  her 
teeth.  Her  voice  is  very  low,  but  Staines  hears  her. 

"I  have  already  warned  you,"  he  reminds  her,  bending 
toward  her.  "It  will  be  insult  upon  insult  heaped!" 
And  then  as  she  moves  away  from  him  through  the  dark 
old  hall,  he  follows  her  to  say  a  last  impressive  word, 
"  Remember  !  There  is  always  a  remedy  !  "  he  whispers,  in 
a  low  tone. 


212  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


CHAPTER   XXXIII. 

"Consider  that  the  invisible  thing  called  a  good  name,  is  made  up  of 
the  breath  of  the  numbers  that  speak  well  of  you." 

SHE  has  barely  time  to  go  to  her  room  and  put  herself 
into  the  hands  of  her  woman,  before  the  arrival  of  her 
guests,  returning  from  Lady  Blount's  tennis  match,  makes 
itself  felt  in  the  house  by  the  sounds  of  gay  laughter  and 
the  click  clack  of  high-heeled  shoes  running  up  the  stairs. 
Mrs.  Amyot  knocks  at  the  door  in  passing,  to  ask  if  her 
headache  is  better,  and  with  a  vile  sense  of  hypocrisy  full 
upon  her,  she  answers  "  Yes,  a  little,"  though  the  headache 
certainly  had  been  there  in  the  morning,  and  no  faintest 
untruth  had  been  uttered  about  it. 

She  is  feeling  tired,  worn  out  in  soul  and  body,  and  it  is 
with  a  sense  of  physical  comfort  that  she  sheds  her  walk- 
ing-attire, and  lets  Bridgman  clothe  her  in  the  looser,  eas- 
ier tea-gown,  of  white  terry  velvet,  that  sits  so  charmingly 
upon  her  lissome  figure,  and  is  undesecrated  by  faintest 
spot  of  color.  As  the  maid  is  putting  a  last  finishing  touch 
to  her,  Muriel  asks  her  a  question,  that  is  yet  hardly  one. 

"  Lord  Branksmere  has  returned  ?"  she  says. 

"Oh  yes,  my  lady.  He  returned  by  the  four  o'clock 
train.  He  inquired  for  your  ladyship,  but  I  told  him  you 
had  gone  for  a  walk  with  Captain  Staines,  as  your  head  was 
bad." 

"And?" 

"  He  was  put  out,  my  lady,  as  was  natural  ;  very  much 
put  out.  Afterward  he  had  a  late  luncheon  with  Madame 
von  Thirsk,  and  after  that  went  up  to  visit  her  ladyship, 
the  Dowager." 

A  strange  look  comes  into  Muriel's  eyes. 

"  I  am  afraid  he  had  but  a  dull  afternoon,"  she  says, 
lightly,  in  a  perfectly  changed  tone.  "  Did  her  ladyship 
keep  him  long  ?  " 

"  No,  my  lady.  But  he  was  not  so  altogether  dull  as  you 
fear.  Madame  kept  him  company  in  the  library  for  some 
time.  But  he  did  seem  real  disappointed — almost  vexed, 
one  might  say — when  he  did  not  find  your  ladyship  on  his 
coming  back  from  town.  He  is  in  the  picture  gallery  now 
with  Madame.  Would  your  ladyship  wish  to — 

No  !     Her  ladyship  would  not  wish  to  see  him  ! 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  213 

Bridgman  being  dismissed  presently,  Lady  Branksmere 
rises  from  the  chair  and  her  enforced  calm,  and  begins  to 
pace  feverishly  up  and  down  the  room.  So  he  had  returned 
then,  at  four!  lie  who  had  never  yet  been  known  to  get 
back  from  town  until  about  half-an-hour  before  dinner! 
What  had  hastened  his  movements  to-day — to-day,  when  he 
had  believed  her  safe  at  Lady  Blount's,  with  all  her  guests  ? 
Was  it  an  arrangement  between  him  and  Madame  ?  Had 
she  decided  upon  staying  at  home  to  receive  him  ?  All  his 
air  of  disappointment  at  not  finding  her,  his  wife,  at  home, 
must  have  been  acted  for  Bridgman's  benefit,  for  the  sav- 
ing of  his  own  lost  honor.  Good  heavens!  what  insults 
are  showered  daily  on  her  head  !  Was  ever  woman  so 
hemmed  in  by  them  ?  To  stoop  to  deceive  her  waiting- 
maid,  to  pretend  surprise  at  her  mistress's  absence,  know- 
ing well  in  his  heart  all  the  while  that  the  mistress 
was  miles  away !  Oh,  the  shame !  the  duplicity  of  it  ! 
She  clinches  her  hands  and  her  lips  grow  white  with  pas- 
sionate resentment,  and  that  sense  of  injury  that  only  the 
woman  betrayed  can  feel. 

What  was  it  Staines  had  said  at  that  last  moment  at  the 
foot  of  the  stairs  ?  "A  remedy  !  "  "  There  is  always  a 
remedy  ;  always."  She  was  to  remember  that.  So  she 
does.  So  she  will.  Hah  !  see  that  they  do  not  drive  her 
too  far.  More  than  one  can  play  at  this  damning  game 
that  he — her  husband — (oh!  the  ignominy  of  it!)  has 
chosen  as  his  pastime. 

She  brings  her  teeth  down  sharply  on  her  under-lip,  and 
stands  as  one  transfixed,  horrified,  yet  fascinated  by  the 
terrible  possibility  she  has  permitted  to  dawn  upon  her. 
Then  suddenly  she  leans  back  against  the  table  behind  her, 
and  bursts  into  a  low,  wild  laugh,  that  is  more  forlorn  than 
tears — sadder  than  despair.  Checking  it  abruptly,  she 
takes  up  her  handkerchief,  and,  with  the  last  remnant  of 
that  reckless  mirth  still  alight  within  her  gleaming  eyes, 
goes  to  the  south  gallery  to  meet  her  guests. 

Mrs.  Amyot's  voice  reaches  her  as  she  steps  from  behind 
a  large  screen. 

"  We  are  disgracefully  late,"  that  pretty  butterfly  is  say- 
ing to  Lord  Branksmere.  "  We  richly  deserve  the  scold- 
ing that  I  hope  Lady  Branksmere  will  not  give  us.  And 
after  all,  I  don't  know  why  we  stayed.  It  was  stupid  to 

suffocation,  and  Lady  Blount,  as  we  all  know,  is .  Well, 

wretchedly  so,  isn't  she  now  ?  You  agree  with  me  ? " 

"  Entirely,"  says  Branksmere. 


214  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  So  you  see  Lady  Branksmere  had  no  loss.  But  I  am 
afraid  she  must  have  found  it  very  lonely  here,  all  by  her- 
self." 

"  Terribly  lonely — all  by  herself,"  returns  Branksmere, 
with  a  grim  smile,  looking  straight  at  his  wife  as  she 
comes  slowly  toward  them  over  the  polished  floor,  her  long, 
white  dress  trailing  behind  her. 

"Oh,  no,  I  was  not  lonely,"  says  she,  in  a  sweet,  clear 
voice.  "  I  went  for  a  row  on  the  lake  with  Captain 
Staines,  and  the  fresh  breeze  there  did  my  head  all  the 
good  in  the  world."  There  is  a  touch  of  defiance  in  the 
glance  she  directs  at  her  husband. 

"Ah,  there  is  no  doctor  like  a — retired  military  man," 
lisps  Mrs.  Vyncr,  her  little  hesitation  so  slight  as  to  be  no- 
ticed by  only  one  or  two. 

"  I  hope,  my  dear  Muriel,  you  took  the  herb-water  I 
prescribed  for  you  this  morning,"  pipes  old  Lady  Primrose 
anxiously.  "  I  told  your  woman  to  be  sure  and  make  you 
take  it..  It  is  infallible.  I  always  give  it  to  Primrose  in 
town,  when  his  head  feels  queer,  and  he  says  it  works 
wonders." 

"So  it  does — on  the  heads  of  the  passers-by,"  mutters 
Primrose,  sotto  voce,  "  because  I  always  chuck  it  out  of  the 
window." 

"  What  a  naughty  little  flower  you  are  !  "  whispers  Mrs. 
Amyot,  with  a  smile  and  glance  that  brings  back  Halkett 
to  her  side  without  a  second's  delay.  He  had  been  a  little 
inclined  to  wander  afield,  but  this  touch  of  coquetry,  di- 
rected at  another,  restores  him  to  his  proper  level  at  once. 
He  forsakes  Margery,  who,  accompanied  by  Bellew  and 
Peter,  has  come  over,  more  to  walk  off  a  restless  mood  than 
for  anything  else,  and  who,  in  truth,  in  her  present  mood,  is 
not  desirous  of  his  company. 

"I'm  tired,"  says  Halkett,  with  a  sigh,  sinking  down 
beside  Mrs.  Amyot,  who  pulls  to  herself  with  a  very  gentle 
but  meaning  action,  the  soft  loose  folds  of  her  tea-gown. 
The  heavy  black  Spanish  laces  cling  to  her  obediently,  as 
if  -to  endorse  the  decision  of  their  mistress  to  draw  back 
from  him  now,  at  once  and  forever.  But  if  this  action  of 
hers  has  meaning,  Halkett  declines  to  see  it.  "I  have 
plenty  of  room,  thanks,"  he  murmurs,  sweetly,  "don't 
crush  your  pretty  gown.  But  country  life  is  very  vigor- 
ous, is  it  not  ?  A  ball  last  night — fourteen  miles  of  a  drive 
to-day,  with  unspeakable  stupidity  at  the  end  of  it.  It  is 
just  the  trifle  too  much,  eh  ?" 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  215 

"  So  you  seem  to  think." 

"Don't you?  Bless  me,"  says  Mr.  Halkett,  leaning  for- 
ward to  examine  her  more  critically,  "now  I  come  to  look 
at  you  you  don't  seem  to  have  a  vestige  of  fatigue  about 
you.  Not  a  hair  turned.  How  I  envy  you  your  staying 
powers  ?  How  I  wish,"  plaintively,  "  I  were  as  strong  as 
you  are." 

At  another  time  Mrs.  Amyot  might  have  laughed  here  ; 
now  she  looks  politely  vague. 

"  I  wish  it  too,"  she  says,  with  a  solidity  that  sits  funnily 
upon  her  in  spite  of  her  stern  determination  to  have  noth- 
ing to  do  with  badinage  of  any  sort.  "  I  could  wish  nobody 
anything  better  than  health  like  mine.  Ah  !  "  Her  tone 
suddenly  changes  to  one  of  warmest  regard.  "  Is  that  you, 
then,  my  Tinytuff  !  my  sweetheart !"  holding  out  her  arms 
to  a  fluffy  little  white  Maltese  terrier,  who  is  rolling  toward 
her  with  tongue  en  evidence.  "  Come  here,  then,  to  its  mis- 
tress, my  love,  my  mouse,  my  cat." 

She  lifts  the  pretty  thing  on  to  her  laces,  and  buries  her 
face  in  its  silky  hair. 

"  Odd,  now  !  "  says  Halkett,  with  a  meditative  air,  "  do 
you  know,  until  this  very  instant,  I  was  always  of  opinion 
that  that  priceless  animal  was  a  dog.  Fact,  I  assure 
you!  Just  shows  how  fancy  will  run  away  with  one  at 
times." 

"  A  passing  fancy,  yes,"  returns  she,  with  a  small,  swift 
glance  at  him  from  under  her  drooping  lashes. 

"  It  wasn't  an  evanescent  affair  by  any  means,"  declares 
Halkett;  "don't  get  yourself  to  imagine  it  so.  On  that 
score  no  excuse  can  be  laid  to  my  folly.  It  was  a.bonafide 
belief.  I  would  have  sworn  it  was  a  dog !  " 

At  this  moment  a  huge  greyhound,  that  up  to  this  has 
lain  perdu,  approaching  Mrs.  Amyot,  makes  a  snap  at  the 
dainty  favorite  lying  upon  her  lap,  seizes  it  bodily,  and,  with 
a  savage  shake,  drops  it  onto  the  floor.  A  piercing  shriek 
bursts  from  the  terrified  Maltese,  as  it  breaks  loose  from 
its  assailant  and  runs  to  hide  itself  among  the  lace  skirts 
of  its  mistress.  The  latter,  who  has  turned  pale  with  fear, 
lifts  it  hurriedly  and  clasps  it  to  her  bosom.  Meantime 
Halkett  has  driven  away  the  greyhound,  who  disappears 
somewhere  into  the  recesses  of  the  curtained  windows. 

"What  a  savage  beast,"  breathes  Mrs.  Amyot,  faintly. 
"  How  he  terrified  me,  and  my  poor  little  lambkin  here." 
She  caresses  with  tenderest  looks  the  still  trembling  ter- 
rier crouching  in  her  arms. 


216  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"Don't!"  entreats  Halkett,  feebly.  "If  you  call  it  by 
any  other  name,  however  sweet,  I  shall  be  undone.  As  it 
is,  my  brain  is  on  fire.  If  a  cat,  how  can  it  be  a  mouse  ?  if 
a  mouse,  how  can  it  be  a  lamb  ?  if  a  lamb,  how  a  cat  ?  Tiie 
question  goes  round  and  round,  and  there  is  no  answer  to 
be  found  for  it  anywhere." 

"  What  a  cruel,  premeditated  attack.  Did  you  watch  it  ?  " 
demands  she,  gazing  at  him  witli  liquid  eyes.  "  The 
treacherous  brute  !  To  make  such  a  wanton  war  on  my 
poor  little  pet." 

"  It's  my  opinion  that  he  hasn't  done  with  him  yet,"  says 
Halkett,  mysteriously.  "  There  was  a  look  in  his  eye  as  I 
drove  him  off — a  greedy  look — that  spoke  of  a  banquet  as- 
sured on  the  morrow.  Take  my  word  for  it,  he  has  made 
up  his  mind  to  your  little  incongruity  !  He's  as  good  as 
gone  already.  I  shouldn't  put  off  the  evil  hour  if  I  were 
you  :  prolonged  torture  is  wearing  ;  I'd  pull  down  all  the 
blinds  without  an  instant's  delay  ;  put  the  household  into 
state  mourning,  and  get  up  a  pathetic  funeral." 

"  I'm  so  glad  you  are  amused,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  with  a 
withering  glance. 

"  I  have  always  thought  there  was  something  wrong  with 
my  countenance.  Now  I  know  it."  Mr.  Halkett  looks 
melancholy.  "  When  I  am  literally  sunk  in  a  very  slough 
of  despond  1  am  told  I  am  in  wild  spirits.  Do  you  really 
believe  I  should  find  amusement  in  the  slaughter  of  your 
little  innocent?  Your  little  rara  avis?  No!  There  is 
nothing  invidious  in  that  appellation.  No  hidden  sarcasm. 
I  see  no  earthly  reason  why  that  remarkable  animal  of 
yours,  if  he  can  be  a  cat,  a  mouse  and  a  lamb  ail  in  one, 
shouldn't  be  a  bird,  too  !  " 

"You  are  without  feeling,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  resent- 
fully. "At  least  so  far  as /am  concerned.  For  me  you 
reserve  your  nastiest  moods.  Why  ?  I  wonder.  What  is 
it  that  I  have  done  to  you  ?" 

"Ah!  what,  indeed,"  returns  Halkett,  leaning  toward 
her,  and  under  cover  of  the  small  dog's  hair  stroking 
with  tender  touch  her  little  fair  hand.  "  I  leave  your  con- 
science to  answer  that." 

"You  told  me  only  last  night  I  had  none,"  murmurs  she, 
coloring  delicately. 

"I  say  many  things,"  remorsefully,  glancing  up  at  her, 
"that  I  don't  mean.  There  is  perhaps  only  one  thing  I 
ever  say  to  you  that  is  entirely  true  ;  entirely." 

"And  that?"     The  eyes  that  are  gazing  into  his  have 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  217 

grown  suddenly  full  of  tears,  and  her  breath  comes  with  a 
soft  eagerness  from  her  parted  lips. 

"Pah  !  If  I  told  you  again,  you  would  but  laugh  at  me 
as  you  did  that  first  time,"  exclaims  he,  with  a  touch  of 
bitterness,  and  rising  abruptly,  he  moves  away  from  her. 

Lady  Primrose  has  now  got  hold  of  Muriel. 

"  I  do  trust,  my  dear,  you  did  not  stay  long  on  that  lake," 
she  is  saying  with  ponderous  anxiety.  "Nothing  so  un- 
wholesome as  a  water  mist,  and  there  was  sure  to  be  one 
uprising  on  such  a  day  as  this."  She  is  so  deaf,  poor  old 
soul,  that  she  always  talks  at  the  top  of  her  lungs,  being, 
perhaps,  under  the  impression  that  her  neighbors  are  simi- 
larly afflicted,  so  that  all  she  says  is  given  to  the  gallery  in 
general. 

"There  was  no  mist,  I  think.  I  felt  no  unpleasantness," 
replies  Lady  Branksmere,  calmly.  Only  Margery,  who  is 
watching  her  with  sad  eyes,  notices  the  convulsive  twitth- 
ing  of  the  white  hand  hidden  in  the  folds  of  her  gown. 

"  Of  course,  Branksmere,  being  with  you,  would  see  to 
that,"  croons  on  the  old  lady,  whose  intellect  having 
grasped  the  fact  that  Branksmere  was  not  at  Lady  Blount's, 
can  no  further  go  beyond  imagining,  that  if  not  there,  he 
must  have  been  with  his  wife.  "Nothing  so  good  as  a  hus- 
band, my  dear,"  with  a  benevolent  smile,  "  when  all  is 
told." 

Deadly  silence,  broken  only  by  a  murmur  from  Mrs. 
Vyner,  which  is  understood  by  all  but  Lady  Primrose. 

"You  will  bear  me  out,"  she  is  whispering,  mildly,  to 
Curzon  Bellew,  "  that  I  always  said  the  dear  old  creature 
was  in  her  dotage.  Doesn't  that  speech  confirm  it  ?  " 

"  But  I  think  she  looks  tired,  Branksmere — she  looks 
pale,"  calls  out  the  mistaken  old  lady  across  the  room.  "  I 
doubt  you  kept  her  on  that  lake  too  long." 

"I  don't  think  so,"  says  Branksmere.  He  lifts  his  head 
and  gives  way  to  a  curious  little  laugh.  "That  lake  pos- 
sesses charms  for  her  of  which  we  know  nothing.  She 
would  have  pined  all  day  but  for  the  benefit  she  derived 
from  its  air."  He  says  all  this  with  the  most  natural  man- 
ner possible,  but  Muriel  writhes  and  winces  inwardly  be- 
neath each  sharp  cut.  How  dare  fie  take  her  to  task  ! 

"That  may  be,"  goes  on  Lady  Primrose,  dubiously. 
"  But  I  suffered  so  much  from  headaches  myself  at  one 
time  that  I  feel  the  greatest  sympathy,  my  love,"  laying 
her  trembling- old  hand  on  Muriel's  cold,  irresponsive  one, 
"for  those  who  now  have  to  endure  them.  I  remember 


2i8  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

well  how  Primrose — my  husband,  my  dear — used  to  have 
to  bathe  my  brows  by  the  hour  together  with  lavender 
water.  It  was  the  only  thing  that  did  me  good,  and  his 
touch  was  gentle  as  a  girl's.  It  was  just  before  my  son 
was  born,"  nodding  across  to  where  the  last  Primrose  of 
her  life,  at  least,  stands  "blooming  alone."  "Ah!  His 
father  was,  indeed  one  in  a  thousand.  I  never  could  bear 
him  out  of  my  sight  in  those  days!" 

"Your  father  must  have  been  the  most  fascinating  man 
of  his  day,"  says  Mrs.  Vyner,  who  can  be  unpardonably 
impertinent  in  her  little  babyish  way. 

"  Now  that  I  come  to  think  of  it,  in  spite  of  his  many 
virtues — and  they  were  many — my  father  I  fear  would  be 
regarded  by  you  as  a  very  ordinary  individual,"  replies 
Primrose,  simply.  "  But  after  all  you  know  there  are 
women  who  not  only  love  but  respect  their  husbands." 

"  Specially  when  they  are  dead,"  smiles  Mrs.  Vyner, 
agreeably,  who  is  not  to  be  subdued  by  any  man  born. 

"  Do  you  ever  get  Branksmere  to  try  lavender  \yater 
with  your  head,  my  love  ?  "  asks  Lady  Primrose  of  Muriel, 
with  gentle  investigation. 

"  No."  Muriel,  who  has  grown  even  paler,  shakes  her 
head.  "  I  do  not  have  so  many  headaches  as  you  suppose, 
and  when  one  comes  to  me  I  find  my  maid  can  do  for  me 
everything  I  require." 

"Ah  ?  a  maid  is  not  a  husband,"  puts  in  Lady  Primrose, 
strongly. 

Everyone  seems  struck  with  this. 

"  'Age  makes  the  sage,'  "  quotes  Halkett,  gravely,  in  a 
low  tone.  "Let  us  be  grateful  for  small  mercies,  in  that 
the  old  lady  has  at  last  stumbled  upon  an  incontrovertible 
fact.  Anyone,"  looking  round  him,  "  prepared  to  dispute 
the  truth  of  her  remark  ?  Could  &  maid  be  a  husband  ?" 

No  one,  it  need  hardly  be  said,  takes  any  notice  of  him  ! 

"  I  always  think  one's  own  woman  understands  one  so 
mucli  better  than  anyone  else,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot,  good- 
naturedly,,  seeing  the  set  expression  of  Muriel's  mouth, 
and  the  ill-suppressed  frown  upon  her  brow. 

"Well,  at  all  events,  she  is  looking  too  white  to  please 
me,"  declares  Lady  Primrose  with  some  faint  insistance.  "I 
don't  believe  in  that  lake,  I  don't  indeed.  Don't  take  her 
there  again,  Branksmere,  if  an  old  woman's  advice  is  worth 
following." 

"  I  won't,"  returns  Branksmere,  and  again  he  laughs, 
unpleasantly.  A  suspicion  that  he  is  seeking  to  shield  her 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  219 

from  Lady  Primrose's  censure,  waking  within  Muriel's 
breast,  drives  her  to  an  open  declaration  of  the  realities  of 
the  question  at  issue. 

"  Branksmere  was  not  with  me  on  the  lake  to-day,"  she 
says,  coldly,  but  distinctly.  "He  went  to  town  by  the  early 
train,  this  morning." 

"  Eh,  my  dear  ?  I  quite  understood  him  to  say 

What  was  it  you  said,  Branksmere  ?  And  if  lie  was  not 
with  you,  my  dear,  who  was — eh  ?  eh  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  Lady  Primrose!  Do  you  know  I  quite  forgot  to 
tell  you  until  this  moment — but —  "  breaks  in  Margery's 
gay  sweet  voice — "I  have  discovered  that  new  knitting 
stitch  that  so  puzzled  us  last  week.  Willie  knew  all  about 
it.  It  is  the  prettiest  thing  :  see — "  dropping  on  her 
knees  before  her,  and  taking  up  the  eternal  workbasket 
that  ever  accompanies  the  old  countess — "  let  me  show  it 
to  you  now  while  it  is  fresh  upon  my  mind.  One.  One, 
two — one,  two,  three — a  turn — you  quite  see  ?  and  then 
back  again.  It  has  the  happiest  result." 

It  has  indeed  !  Lady  Primrose  growing  enthusiastic 
over  the  new  stitch,  Muriel  makes  her  escape  to  a  distant 
tea  table,  where  comparative  calm  is  at  least  obtained,  un- 
til the  dinner-bell  rings,  and  she  is  enabled  to  make  her 
escape  to  her  own  room. 

Dinner  is  a  rather  languid  affair,  most  of  the  guests 
being  too  tired  to  even  make  a  pretence  at  conversation, 
and  by  ten  o'clock  all  have  melted  away  to  their  several 
apartments.  Muriel,  with  a  long  sigh  of  heartfelt  relief, 
flings  herself  into  a  lounging  chair  in  the  pretty  satin-lined 
nest,  half  boudoir,  half  dressing-room,  that  opens  out  of 
her  bedroom,  and  gives  herself  up  to  the  luxury  of  being 
entirely  alone,  without  fear  of  interruption.  Now  at  last 
she  can  think  ;  can  review  her  day  ;  can  give  herself  up 
completely  to  the  various  emotions  that  are  swaying  her. 
Leaning  back  in  her  chair  in  her  black  evening  gown,  she 
presses  her  fingers  against  her  aching  lids,  and  seeks  to 
concentrate  her  thoughts. 

A  slight  noise  startles  her.  Hastily  lowering  her  hands 
from  her  face,  she  looks  up.  Lord  Branksmere  is  stand- 
ing on  the  hearthrug  a  few  paces  from  her,  gazing  at  her 
interitlv ! 


220  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

CHAPTER   XXXIV. 

"Harsh  springs,  and  fountains  bitterer  than  the  sea.'' 

His  face  is  white  and  stern,  a  sullen  frown  has  gathered 
on  his  forehead  ;  beneath  his  bent  brows  his  eyes  look  out 
on  her,  filled  with  suppressed  fire. 

"  This  is  an  unwarrantable  intrusion,"  says  Lady  Branks- 
mere,  rising  slowly  to  her  feet,  and  standing  now  with  her 
hand  resting  upon  the  back  of  her  chair.  She  glances 
swiftly  at  the  door  as  if  to  assure  herself  that  it  is  indeed 
locked,  as  when  she  herself  five  minutes  ago  had  turned 
the  key  in  it.  He  must  have  come  then  through  the  bed- 
room. 

"Not  more  so  than  usual,"  coldly.  "  My  presence — any- 
where— is  an  intrusion  now,  if  you  happen  to  be  there." 

"  What  has  brought  you  ?"  asks  she,  haughtily,  gazing 
at  him  with  ill-concealed  dislike. 

"  I  have  come  to  demand  an  explanation,"  returns  he, 
deliberately  crossing  the  room  to  close  the  door  by  which 
he  had  entered.  His  very  action  has  such  determination 
in  it  that  it  startles  her. 

"  Explain  !  What  should  I  have  to  explain  ?  "  replies 
she,  proudly.  She  lifts  her  eyes  to  his  as  though  to  court 
his  scrutiny — experience  having  taught  her  perhaps  that 
this  is  the  safest  way  to  escape  from  it — but  to-night  her 
plan,  if  it  is  one,  fails  ;  his  eyes  refuse  to  go  down  before 
hers,  he  takes  even  a  step  that  brings  him  nearer  to  her. 

"You  will  be  kind  enough  to  tell  me,"  he  says  slowly, 
"  what  it  is  you  mean  by  your  friendship  with  Captain 
Staines." 

"  Take  care,"  cries  she,  suddenly  ;  "  this  is  rather  a  dan- 
gerous tone  for  you  to  take  with  me — is  it  not  ?  Consider, 
Branksmere  !  before  you  rouse  me  to  recrimination.  Have 
/no  fault  to  find,  think  you  ?  have  /  no  wrongs  ?  " 

"Let  us  come  to  that  later  on,  if  you  will,"  returns  he, 
in  an  unmoved  tone.  "At  present  confine  yourself  to  the 
question  in  hand.  I  wish  to  know  how  matters  stand  be- 
tween you  and — your  guest." 

"Yours — rather." 

"True.     I  had  forgotten  his  double  dishonor  there." 

"  Honor  is  a  word  that  seems  to  trip  lightly  from  your 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  221 

tongue,"  sneers  she,  with  ineffable  contempt.  "  Is  it  then 
a  thing  so  dear  to  you  ? '' 

"  So  much  of  it  as  lies  in  your  keeping,  I  shall  at  least 
look  after,"  retorts  he,  steadily. 

Her  large  eyes  flash.  She  flings  the  feather  fan  she  has 
up  to  this  been  almost  unconsciously  holding,  far  from  her 
toward  a  distant  lounge.  She  misses  her  aim,  however, 
and  it  comes  with  a  crash  to  the  ground.  Branksmerc, 
with  a  coolness  that  literally  grates  upon  her  excited 
nerves,  goes  slowly  up  to  it,  lifts  it,  and  places  it  noise- 
lessly upon  the  table  near. 

"  That  you  have  come  here  with  the  express  purpose  of 
insulting  me,"  exclaims  she,  bitterly,  "is  plain  enough. 
Yet  I  hardly  think  there  was  need  for  it.  Every  day,  every 
hour  I  spend  beneath  your  roof  is  filled  with  such  affronts 
as  only  the  meanest  of  your  sex  would  dare  offer  to  any 
woman." 

"  I  must  again  beg  of  you  to  keep  to  the  matter  under 
discussion.  As  I  have  already  said,  I  can  listen  to  your 
side  of  the  affair  later  on." 

"  What  is  it  you  want  with  me  ?  "  asks  she,  with  sudden 
vehemence.  "  Be  quick  !  Let  me  hear  it.  I  am  tired, 
worn  out.  I  would  be  alone."  She  beats  her  foot  impa- 
tiently against  the  floor. 

"  If  you  are  tired,  sit  down,"  he  pushes  a  low  chair  to- 
ward her.  His  tone  is  still  studiously  calm.  "  I  shall  not 
leave  this  room  to-night  until  I  have  had  an  answer  from 
you,  and  come  to  some  understanding." 

"  I  am  placed  at  the  bar,  it  appears,"  murmurs  she,  with 
a  curious  smile.  "  State  your  case  then.  Let  me  know 
of  what  I  am  accused.  What  fancied  wrongs  are  yours?" 

"  I  seldom  have  fancies," — coldly — "  I  have  refrained 
from  speech,  until  you  yourself  have  rendered  silence  no 
longer  possible.  When  your  name  is  made  public  prop- 
erty, when  it  is  in  the  mouths  of  all,  I  feel — 

"  Be  silent !  "  interrupts  she,  imperiously,  "  I  want  none  of 
your  comments.  Tell  me  only  of  what  it  is  you  accuse  me." 

"Of  your  intimacy  with  your  former  lover,"  cries  he, 
with  the  first  touch  of  violent  anger  he  has  shown.  His 
nostrils  dilate,  his  breath  comes  heavily  through  his  white 
lips.  "Last  night  you  made  yourself  conspicuous  with 
him  before  the  entire  county  ;  to-day,  under  the  pretext 
of  a  headache,  you  absented  yourself  from  your  guests, 
refused  to  accompany  them  to  Lady  Blount's,  that  you 
might  have  an  uninterrupted  afternoon  with  him." 


222  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  It  is  false,"  returns  she,  vehemently  ;  "  my  head  did 
ache.  I  stayed  away  from  Lady  Blount's  ;  yet  it  was  by 
the  merest  chance  that  I  went  on  the  lake  with  Captain 
Staines." 

"  Pshaw  !  "  exclaims  he,  scornfully. 

"  Listen  to  me  or  not,  as  you  will  ;  "  haughtily — "  I  had 
no  intention  of  going  on  the  lake  until  long  after  they  had 
all  gone  to  that  tennis  match." 

"  And  was  it  the  merest  chance,  too,  that  kept  you  on  the 
island  with  that — fellow — for  three  long  hours — short 
hours,  rather,"  with  a  pale  smile. 

"Did  she  tell  you  all  that?"  asks  Lady  Branksmere, 
slowly.  A  strange  little  laugh  breaks  from  her.  "She  is 
indeed  invaluable.  What  more  did  your  spy  impart  to 
you?  Perhaps  she  told  you  too  (though  no  doubt  she 
omitted  that  part  of  the  story),  how  it  was  I  spent  so 
long  upon  the  island  ?  However,  that  hardly  matters. 
That  would  not  be  an  interesting  part  to  cither  her  or 
you.  Let  me  rest  as  vile  as  you  both  would  fain  make 
me  out." 

"  Can  you  deny  that  you  deliberately  refused  to  comply 
with  my  request  for  an  interview  this  afternoon  ?" 

"  I  know  nothing  of  any  interview.  But  if  I  am  to  be 
unjustly  condemned  for  so  many  things,  one  more  is  of 
little  consequence."  Then  all  at  once  she  turns  upon 
him,  and  her  wrath  breaks  out.  "  How  dare  you  so  speak 
to  me,"  she  cries,  "you  who  turned  back  from  town  by  an 
early  train  to  spend  your  time  with  Madame  von  Thirsk, 
believing  me  to  be  safely  out  of  your  way  at  Lady 
Blount's  !  Oh,  it  is  wise'ui  you  to  turn  the  tables  upon 
me,  lest  I  be  the  first  to  bring  an  accusation.  But  you 
need  not  have  sunk  so  low,  I  should  not  have  questioned 
you.  Look  here,"  cries  she,  throwing  out  her  arms  with 
a  gesture  of  weariness,  "  I  suppose  it  is  that  I  no  longer 
care.  I  give  in.  Do  what  you  will  without  fear  of  censure 
from  me.  I  feel  deadened,  emotionless.  You  have  killed 
within  me  all  feeling,  all  sensibility." 

"  To  follow  your  rhapsodies  is  beyond  me,"  says  Branks- 
mere, with  a  shrug.  "  But  I  regret  that  you  should  con- 
sider it  necessary  to  disclaim  all  knowledge  of  my  having 
asked  of  you  that  interview." 

"  When  I  say  I  know  nothing  of  it,  I  speak  only  the 
truth." 

He  looks  at  her  searchingly,  but  her  eyes  meet  his 
boldly. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  223 

"  You  mean  to  deny  that  you  were  unaware  why  I  left 
town  to-day  by  so  early  a  train  ? " 

"No,"  contemptuously.  "On  the  contrary,  I  gave  you 
fully  to  understand  that  I  am  quite  aware  of  your  reason 
for  having  done  so." 

"Attend  to  me,"  exclaims  he,  sternly.  "Your  flippancy 
will  not  serve  you  here.  That  you  got  the  flowers  I  sent 
you  last  night  I  know,  although  you  cast  them  aside  that 
you  might  wear  others  worthier  in  your  eyes." 

"  There,  too,  you  are  mistaken,"  she  is  beginning  hur- 
riedly ;  but  she  checks  herself.  She  is  tired  of  this  useless 
explaining.  Why  press  upon  him  a  fact  he  is  so  deter- 
mined not  to  believe.  "Certainly  I  received  your  flowers," 
she  finishes,  coldly. 

"  And  my  note  in  them." 

"  There  was  no  note  ;  no  message  of  any  sort."  He  re- 
gards her  for  a  moment  very  fixedly,  and  then  his  lips  curl 
in  a  slow,  disdainful  sneer.  By  a  supreme  effort  she  con- 
trols her  temper,  and  points  to  a  distant  table. 

"  There  are  the  flowers  you  sent,  go  search  them  for  this 
supposititious  note  of  yours."  She  had  expected  him  to 
take  no  notice  of  this  command,  but  to  her  surprise,  he 
turns  and  walks  doggedly  toward  the  table  indicated,  lifts 
the  bouquet  from  the  bowl  in  Avhich  the  maid  had  placed 
it,  and  leisurely  proceeds  to  examine  it.  "  What  a  waste 
of  time  to  hope  so  to  impress  me,"  she  mutters  to  herself, 
watching  him  with  a  supercilious  smile.  A  smile  that 
fades,  however,  and  gives  place  to  angry  astonishment,  as 
he  pulls  from  the  centre  of  the  flowers  a  note  carefully 
folded  and  holds  it  to  her. 

"You  see  I  did  write,"  he  says,  tranquilly,  no  touch  of 
triumph  in  his  tone.  Mechanically  she  takes  the  paper 
from  him,  but  makes  no  attempt  to  open  it.  She  has 
grown  extremely  pale,  and  her  hands  are  trembling. 

"  I  never  knew  it  was  there,"  she  declares  at  last,  like 
one  dazed.  He  bows  profoundly.  Is  there  a  touch  of 
mockery  in  his  salutation  ?  "I  swear  I  never  knew  it,"  re- 
peats she,  eagerly,  taking  a  step  toward  him. 

"  I  do  not  ask  for  excuse  or  apology.  Pray  spare  your- 
self and  me,"  returns  he,  icily.  She  draws  even  nearer  to 
him,  her  large  stormy  eyes  fixed  on  his.  She  has  thrown 
up  her  head,  and,  with  an  action  suggestive  of  unrestrain- 
able  passion,  has  crumpled  the  note  she  holds  in  her 
clinched  hand. 

"  You  believe  me  ?  "  she  demands  in  alow,  choked  voice. 


224  LADY  BRAKK'SMERE. 

"  No  !  "  replies  he  with  a  terseness  that  is  almost  brutal. 

There  is  a  long  pause,  during  which  they  stand  staring 
at  each  other,  hatred  and  defiance  in  their  gaze.  Then  : 

"  Coward  !  "  hisses  she  through  her  trembling  lips. 

"  Nay,  it  is  you  who  are  the  coward,"  retaliates  he,  calmly. 
"  It  is  through  fear  that  you  have  thus  lied  to  me." 

"  Do  you  think  that  I  am  afraid  of  you  ?  "  cries  she,  sud- 
denly, with  vehement  scorn.  "  You  must  be  mad  to 
talk  to  me  like  this !  Where  are  you  seeking  to  drive 
me  ?  What  is  to  be  the  end  of  all  this,  think  you  ?  Afraid ! 
And  of  you!  I  tell  you  I  defy  you — to  your  face  I  defy 
you ! " 

The  night  is  dark  and  chill,  the  wind  has  risen.  A  fire 
has  been  lighted  in  the  grate,  and  the  red  glow  from  it 
lights  up  her  shimmering  gown,  and  quivers  like  a  flame 
around  her  shapely  head  and  statuesque  figure,  now 
strained  to  its  full  height.  Her  face  is  like  marble,  out  of 
which  her  eyes  gleam  dark  and  fierce.  The  intensity  of 
her  passion  only  lends  another  charm  to  her  exceeding 
beauty. 

"  There  is  no  occasion  to  tell  me  that  ;  you  have  done  so 
openly  ever  since  our  luckless  marriage,"  says  Branksmere, 
bitterly.  "  I  o\ve  you  many  things." 

"For  the  second  time  I  warn  you  to  beware,"  exclaims 
she,  losing  all  control.  "Are  your  actions  then  so  alto- 
gether pure  that  you  can  afford  to  take  me  to  task  ?  You 
—you — who  keep  that  shameless  woman  under  the  same 
roof  with  your  wife  !  " 

"Do  you  know  what  you  are  saying  ? "  demands  Branks- 
mere fiercely,  grasping  her  arm.  "  Prove  your  words." 

"  Oh  !  that  I  could,"  breathes  she,  wildly.  "  That  I  could 
prove  anything  that  would  set  me  free  from  you." 

"  Free  to  give  yourself  to  another!"  He  lets  her  go 
abruptly,  pushing  her  roughly  away,  and  a  sharp,  jarring 
laugh  breaks  from  him.  "  Pah  !  you  play  too  open  a  game. 
I  fear  it  is  not  in  your  power  to  furnish  yourself  with 
those  proofs  you  so  eagerly  desire." 

"You  mean ?"  Her  voice  is  curiously  low  and 

calm. 

"  That  you  would  welcome  any  dishonor  that  would 
fling  you  into  the  arms  of — your  Iwer  !  " 

It  is  said  !  Nothing  can  recall  it !  There  is  a  moment's 
awful  silence,  and  then  Branksmere  falls  quickly  back 
from  her,  a  dark  red  stain  across  his  cheek  where  her  palm 
had  struck  him.  It  is  all  done  and  over  in  a  moment,  but 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  225 

for  a  full  minute  he  scarcely  recovers  himself.  Then  it  is 
to  find  the  room  empty.  For  in  the  tumult  of  her  rage 
Lady  Branksmere  had  caught  up  a  shawl  and  hurried  from 
the  room — the  house  ! 


CHAPTER  XXXV. 

"  I  shall  remember  while  the  light  lives  yet, 
And  in  the  night-time  I  shall  not  forget " 

THE  stars  are  hidden  by  the  dense  bank  of  clouds  that 
makes  dull  the  heavens,  but  a  pale,  watery  moon  sheds 
here  and  there  a  vague  pathway  through  the  earth,  that 
helps  her  to  find  the  woodland  path  that  leads  from  the 
Castle  to  her  old  home.  Swiftly,  mechanically,  she  moves 
toward  it,  conscious  of  little  but  that  she  is  leaving  behind 
her  misery  too  great  to  be  borne. 

Her  brain  is  still  so  disturbed,  her  thoughts  so  wild,  that 
she  can  hardly  concentrate  them  upon  any  one  feeling  ; 
yet  through  all  the  confusion  a  sense  of  self-horror  per- 
vades her  being.  She  is  ashamed !  that  is  the  principal 
pain — ashamed  down  to  the  very  innermost  depths  of  her 
soul.  She  had  raised  her  hand  against  him  ;  she,  Muriel ! 
A  touch  of  loathing,  of  cruel  self-contempt,  cuts  into  her 
already  seared  and  bruised  heart.  She  is  smitten  with  re- 
morse, stricken  to  the  earth — not  for  him,  but  for  her  own 
pride,  for  the  dignity  that  had  once  enveloped  her. 

Yet  she  sheds  no  tears.  Why  should  she  ?  What  good 
would  they  do  ?  Were  she  to  weep  her  miserable  eyes 
blind,  would  she  gain  by  it  ?  Would  the  Fates  be  at  last 
kind  ?  Would  her  grief  propitiate  them  ?  Would  they 
turn  because  of  it,  and  succor  her? 

With  blind  haste  she  hurries  along  the  little  beaten  track 
beneath  the  shadowy  leaves,  until  a  sudden  turn  in  it 
brings  her  face  to  face  with  the  walls  of  her  old  home, 
gleaming  gray  in  the  growing  moonlight — the  only  home, 
she  tells  herself,  with  sobbing  breath,  that  she  will  ever 
know.  Some  instinct  draws  her  feet  to  the  quaint  iron- 
bound  door  of  the  armory,  and,  laying  her  hand  upon  it,  as 
one  might  who  is  sure  of  entrance  even  at  this  late  hour, 
presses  it  from  her  to  find  her  instinct  true.  The  door 
yields,  and  she  moves  quickly  onward  into  the  irregular 
vaulted  passage  beyond. 


226  LADY  BKANKSMERE. 

It  is  unlighted,  but  a  stray  beam  flinging  itself  through 
the  stained  window  at  the  lower  end  gives  her  a  lead,  and 
shows  her  the  stone  steps  that  bring  her  finally  to  the  en- 
trance hall  above.  The  house  is  wrapped  in  silence,  though 
at  the  farthest  end  of  the  hall  one  lamp  is  still  burning  in 
vague,  dull  fashion.  An  intense  longing  to  gain  Margery's 
chamber  unseen,  unheard,  drives  her  to  the  staircase,  but 
on  her  way  the  sound  of  soft  laughter,  that  seems  to  issue 
from  a  room  upon  her  right,  checks  her  progress.  Turn- 
ing aside  without  thought,  she  opens  the  door  of  this 
room,  and  enters  it  so  softly  that  her  coming  is  unheard. 

Here  the  lamps  are  lighting  brilliantly  ;  the  heavy  silken 
curtains  are  closely  drawn  ;  a  small,  but  eminently  cosy 
little  fire  is  coaxing  an  equally  small  kettle  to  sing  with  all 
its  might.  There  is  a  tiny  tea  equipage  upon  a  gypsy 
table,  and  upon  another  table  near  it  a  fowl  delicately 
roasted,  a  tempting  pate — a  Dresden  bowl  full  of  straw- 
berries, and  a  long-necked  bottle.  Before  the  fire,  in 
pretty,  loose  white  robes,  sit  Mrs.  Daryl  and  Margery  ;  at 
the  side,  Angelica  ;  in  a  costume  that  might  suggest  to  the 
intelligent  onlooker  that  she  had  been  summoned  from  her 
bed  at  a  moment's  notice.  There  is,  indeed,  an  air  of  re- 
fined Bohemianism  about  the  trio,  and  a  subdued  desire  to 
prove  to  themselves  and  each  other  that  servants  are  a 
snare  and  a  swindle,  and  that  everyone  could  get  on  much 
better  without  them. 

"I  don't  believe  a  kettle,  a  small  kettle,  could  take  so 
long  to  boil,"  Mrs.  Daryi  is  saying,  anxiously,  leaning  over 
the  fire.  "  When  it  makes  that  little  fussy  noise  it's  boil- 
ing, eh  ?  " 

"  I'm  certain  of  it,"  agrees  Margery,  gladly.  "  Let  us 
make  the  tea." 

"  It  isn't  thinking  of  boiling,"  declares  Angelica.  "  I've 
boiled  hundreds  of  kettles,  and  I  know  all  about  it.  First 
it  must  sing,  then  the  steam  must  pour  out  of  its  nose,  and 
then  it  is  all  over,  and — you  take  it  up." 

She  is  looking  at  Margery  as  she  speaks,  and  at  this 
identical  moment  the  kettle  gives  way  to  the  ebullition  of 
which  she  has  been  speaking.  Puff,  puff  goes  the  steam 
all  over  the  place. 

"If  you  mean  me"  cries  Margery,  pushing  back  her 
chair,  "I  couldn't  do  it,  at  all  ;  I  couldn't  really.  It's  an 
abominable  little  thing.  How  angry  it  looks  !  I  wouldn't 
touch  it — to  say  nothing  of  lifting  it  bodily  from  the  fire — • 
for  anything  that  could  be  offered," 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  227 

As  she  speaks  she  turns  quite  round,  and  thus  brings 
herself  face  to  face  with  Muriel,  the  poor,  rich,  titled  thing, 
who  would  have  given  all  her  possessions  to-night  to  be 
able  to  mingle  with  them,  with  a  heart  free  from  care,  in 
their  gay  idlesse.  Even  the  fire  has  sent  a  vague  touch  of 
warmth  and  comfort  into  her  angry  heart.  As  she  meets 
Margery's  glance,  she  makes  a  step  forward. 

The  rustle  of  her  gown,  joined  to  Margery's  silence, 
rouses  Mrs.  Billy  from  her  tragic  examination  of  the  kettle. 
She  turns,  and  would  perhaps  have  given  way  to  the  ex- 
pression of  dismay  that  rises  to  her  lips,  but  for  the  swift 
glimpse  she  gets  of  Margery's  face.  The  girl  is  livid.  In 
a  second  Mrs.  Billy  has  conquered  herself,  and  is  advanc- 
ing toward  Lady  Branksmere  with  rather  an  increase  of 
the  debonnaire  manner  that  belongs  to  her. 

"You  are  just  in  time,"  she  cries,  with  an  air  of  open 
jollity  that  does  her  credit.  "  We  have  been  dining  at  that 
wretched  old  Sir  Mutius  Mumm's  again,  and,  as  usual,  have 
come  home  starving.  The  servants  for  the  most  part  were 
in  bed,  so  Margery  and  I  decided  upon  making  a  raid  on 
the  larder  for  ourselves,  and  we  haven't  done  so  badly, 
have  we  ?  The  only  drawback  to  our  success  lies  in  the 
fact  that  I  had  made  up  my  mind  to  a  cup  of  tea,  and  the 
kettle  has  proved  too  much  for  us.  But  you  have  had  a 
good  long  walk,  eh  ?  You  are  tired  ?  Meg,"  with  a  swift 
glance  at  Margery,  "will  you  and  Angelica  make  yet  an- 
other predatory  incursion  and  see  if  you  couldn't  impound 
some  Madeira." 

Margery,  obeying  the  look  that  bids  her  take  Angelica 
out  of  the  room,  beckons  to  the  latter,  and  goes  hastily 
upon  her  errand.  When  the  door  has  closed  upon  them, 
Mrs.  Billy  turns  to  Muriel. 

"  Now,  what  is  it  ?  "  she  asks,  promptly. 

"It  is  of  no  use  your  banishing  Meg,"  returns  Lady 
Branksmere,  coldly.  "  She  must  know  it  all  soon.  The 
whole  world  will  know  it.  I  have  left  that  place  forever." 

"  You  have  left  your  husband  ?  " 

"  If  you  wish  to  put  it  so — yes.  For  myself  I  feel  more 
as  if  I  had  left  Madame  von  Thirsk  and  all  the  vile  asso- 
ciations that  have  degraded  my  married  life." 

"All?"  questions  Mrs.  Billy  with  a  searching  glance. 
That  it  is  a  hazardous  hint  to  throw  out  to  a  woman  in 
Muriel's  frame  of  mind  she  well  knows,  yet  to  refrain  from 
it  seems  cowardice.  Lady  Branksmere  takes  it  rather  bet- 
ter than  she  had  expected, 


228  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"You,  too,  condemn  me  then?"  she  says,  slowly.  "I 
have  no  friend  anywhere." 

"Don't  encourage  morbid  nonsense,"  says  Mrs.  Billy, 
directly,  in  a  strong,  breezy  tone.  "  See  here  :  I  think  you 
had  better  sit  down  and  tell  me  all  about  it."  She  presses 
her  gently  into  an  arm-chair.  Exhausted,  physically  and 
mentally,  Muriel  leans  back  among  the  cushions,  and 
sighs  heavily.  Then  suddenly  she  breaks  into  a  recital  of 
her  wrongs  ;  not  loudly  or  passionately,  but  in  a  cold,  angry 
way,  that  somehow  is  more  impressive.  Once  or  twice 
during  her  hurried  explanation  of  her  presence,  Mrs.  Daryl 
had  changed  color,  and  now  it  is  with  her  face  partially 
averted  that  she  speaks. 

"This  man — this  friend  of  yours — Captain  Staines,"  she 
says.  "  He  is  in  the  way,  it  seems  to  me." 

"Not  in  my  way,"  haughtily. 

"In  yours,  principally,  I  should  say.  Has  he  not,  per- 
haps, some  other  acquaintances  who  would  be  glad  to  re- 
ceive him  for  a  time." 

"  I  shall  not  tell  him  to  go  if  you  mean  that.  I,  who 
have  been  so  grossly  insulted,  shall  not  be  the  one  to  give 
in,  and  by  such  an  act  almost  acknowledge  myself  in  the 
wrong." 

"Get  rid  of  Captain  Staines,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  a  little 
doggedly,  and  almost  as  though  she  had  not  heard  her. 
Neither  of  them  had  noticed  the  entrance  of  Dick  some 
minutes  before,  or  if  they  had,  had  given  it  no  thought. 
He  had  been  as  usual  buried  in  his  beloved  books  in  the 
library,  and  had  perhaps  heard  Muriel's  coming.  He  had 
certainly  evinced  no  surprise  at  her  presence  on  entering 
the  prettily  lighted  room  where  she  now  is,  and  had  offered 
her  no  greeting.  As  though  fearful  of  disturbing  her 
story,  he  had  dropped  into  the  c.'nlr  nearest  to  the  door, 
and,  resting  his  elbows  on  a  table  close  to  him,  had  let  his 
chin  fall  into  his  palms  and  so  listened  intently  to  the  re- 
velation that  in  her  hot  wrath  she  had  poured  forth.  Per- 
haps he  had  had  his  doubts  before  about  the  happiness  of 
this,  his  favorite  sister  ;  perhaps  now  he  is  bent  on  solving 
them.  There  is  something  about  the  tall,  pale,  bookish  lad 
suggestive  of  suppressed  but  excited  thought.  As  Muriel 
pauses,  hardly  knowing  what  to  say  to  Mrs.  Billy's  persist- 
ence, he  produces  himself,  and  comes  eagerly  forward. 

"  Billy  is  her  eldest  brother.  Billy  should  be  told,"  he 
says,  with  a  touch  of  imperiousness  in  his  tone  that  re- 
minds one  strangely  of  Muriel's  own.  He  looks,  as  he 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  229 

speaks,  at  Billy's  wife,  who  receives  the  charge  with  great 
gallantry. 

"First" we  must  think,"  she  says. 

"  If  you  don't  tell  him  to-morrow,  I  shall."  The  embryo 
statesman  warns  her  stolidly,  with  a  flame  in  his  eyes  that 
belies  the  calmness  of  his  tone.  He  lays  his  long,  nervous 
fingers  on  Muriel's  wrist,  who  starts,  and  trembles  out  of 
the  sad  waking  dream  into  which  she  has  fallen,  and  turn- 
ing, looks  at  him.  He  is  so  tall,  so  pale,  so  young,  this  de- 
fender of  hers,  so  pure  at  heart.  She  draws  her  breath  bit- 
terly as  she  stoops  and  presses  a  kiss  upon  that  loving  hand. 

When  the  boy  has  gone  back  to  his  midnight  oil  and  his 
ambitious  dreams  so  surely  to  be  fulfilled,  she  turns  again 
to  Wilhelmina  with  a  softened  air. 

"  I  didn't  know  he  was  here,"  she  says.  "  Is  he  always 
up  so  late  ?  " 

"Very  of  ten." 

"  Too  often,"  vehemently.  "  Did  you  see  how  white  his 
beautiful  face  was  ?  " 

"  Yes.  It  is  desperately  bad  for  him,  I  know,  to  so 
squander  his  hours  of  rest ;  but  he  is  a  genius,  it  seems,  and 
when  you  fall  in  with  one  of  that  sort,  I  guess  you  had 
better  give  him  plenty  of  line,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  with  a  sage 
nod  or  two.  She  would  perhaps  have  said  more,  but  that 
here  Margery  and  Angelica  re-enter  the  room  ;  Margery 
pale  and  depressed,  Angelica  distinctly  curious. 

"  Do  not  send  me  away  again,"  cries  Margery,  softly, 
appealing  to  Muriel.  "  I  am  so  unhappy  !  There  is  some- 
thing wrong,  I  know  ;  something  between  you  and 
Branksmere  ?" 

"You  see  what  folly  it  would  be  to  aim  at  secrecy,"  says 
Muriel,  bitterly,  to  Mrs.  Daryl.  "  Instinct  has  pointed  out 
to  her  the  truth." 

"  Oh  !  is  it  about  poor  George  ?"  exclaims  Angelica,  re- 
gretfully, who  had  long  ago  elected  to  like  "  poor  George," 
and  to  find  a  wide  field  for  pity  in  the  barrenness  of  his 
wedded  life.  "  What  an  unfortunate  thing  it  is  that  you 
can't  loye  him  !  " 

This  innocent  speech  has  the  effect  of  a  bomb-shell 
thrown  into  their  midst. 

"  Go  to  bed,  Angelica,"  cries  Lady  Branksmere,  start- 
ing to  her  feet  and  trembling  visibly.  "  It  is  horrible  that 
children  like  you  should  be  allowed  to  have  a  voice  in " 

"  I  am  not  a  child,"  interrupts  Angelica,  plaintively,  who 
is  indeed  deeply  grieved  at  the  thought  that  she  has  in 


230  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

some  way  given  offence.  "And  I  did  not  mean  to  hurt 
you,  dear  Muriel.  It  is  not  your  fault,  I  know.  It  is  quite 
as  sad  a  thing  that  he  can't  love  you  /  " 

Lady  Brankesmere  shrinks  away  from  her. 

"  Angelica,  how  can  you,"  cries  Margery,  indignantly  ; 
and  Mrs.  Billy,  coming  to  the  rescue,  lays  her  hand  on  the 
unfortunate  Angelica's  arm  and  guides  her  to  the  door. 

"  But  what  is  it — what  have  I  done  ? "  protests  she 
through  her  tears. 

"Everything — nothing,"  returns  Mrs.  Billy,  incoherently. 
"  You  will  understand  when  your  own  time  comes.  Never 
mind  what  you  have  done  ;  what  you  have  got  to  do  now 
is  to — skedaddle." 

She  pushes  the  girl  softly  out  of  the  room,  and  Angelica, 
in  high  dudgeon,  disappears  from  the  scene.  Margery  is 
kneeling  beside  Lady  Branksmere,  and  has  taken  her  sis- 
ter's cold  hand  in  both  hers. 

"Tell  me  what  has  happened,"  she  entreats,  looking 
round  at  Mrs.  Daryl. 

"  There  has  been  a  misunderstanding.  It  will  not  last, 
I  trust,"  explains  Mrs.  Billy  in  a  low  tone. 

"Why  do  you  seek  to  soften  matters,"  exclaims  Lady 
Branksmere,  irritably.  "  I  tell  you,  Margery,  I  have  left 
him.  I  have  left  a  house  where  all  day  long  I  was  insulted 
by  that  woman's  presence." 

"If  you  think  there  is  anything  between  her  and  your 
husband,"  begins  Mrs.  Billy 

"  Think  !  " 

"  Well,  why  don't  you  go  straight  to  him  and  just  put  it 
to  him  that  you  can't  be  happy  while  she  remains  at  the 
castle.  Speak  boldly  to  him.  Throw  yourself  on  his  gen- 
erosity. I  believe  half  this  is  mere  imagination  of  yours. 
And  at  all  events  speak.  Why  should  one  be  afraid  of 
one's  husband  ?" 

"Ah!"  A  long  drawn  breath  escapes  Muriel;  "you 
are  a  happy  wife  ?"  she  says  ;  "you  cannot  comprehend  a 
case  like  mine."  Her  hands  fall  inertly  into  her  lap  in  a 
weary,  purposeless  fashion,  that  goes  to  Margery's  soul. 

"  Demand  the  truth  !  "  persists  Mrs.  Billy,  in  a  tone 
slightly  raised,  in  the  hope  of  rousing  Muriel  from  her  sad 
musing. 

"And  what  if  I  have  done  so,"  says  she  at  last,  "and  got 
no  satisfaction  ? " 

"  Do  so  again  and  again  until  you  do — one  way  or  the 
other." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  231 

"I  cannot,"  declares  Muriel,  wearily.  "I  am  tired  of  it 
all.  And  even  if  I  would,  opportunity  is  denied  me.  That 
woman  of  late  haunts  him  ;  they  are  together  from  morn- 
ing till  night." 

"  But  not  from  night  till  morning,"  says  Mrs.  Billy, 
briskly. 

Muriel's  lips  grow  white.  She  throws  out  her  arms 
protestingly. 

"  Who  can  say  !  "  she  answers  in  a  low  voice  full  of  terri- 
ble suspicion,  her  eyes  on  the  ground. 

Mrs.  Daryl  is  shocked  :  Margery  bursts  into  tears. 

"  Oh  !  Muriel,  darling,  why  will  you  destroy  your  own 
happiness  by  harboring  such  sad"  beliefs.  I  am  sure 
Branksmere  in  his  heart  is  true  to  you,  but  there  are  little 
things  that •" 

"  Pshaw!"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  impatiently,  pushing 
her  away.  "Am  I  a  fool  to  be  cajoled  by  such  words  as 
these.  Put  faith  in  him,  you,  if  you  will — it  will  doubt- 
less "  (bitterly)  "save  you  trouble — but  I — who  knoui ! 

—  It  is  monstrous,  I  tell  you." 

"  But  it  seems  to  me,"  persists  Margery,  eagerly,  "  that 
he  is  not  that — that  kind  of  person.  He  is  too  self-con- 
tained perhaps — but  hardly  dishonorable." 

"Well,  I  have  not  come  here  to  listen  to  Branksmerc's 
praises,"  says  Muriel,  rising  abruptly  to  her  feet,  witli  a 
short  laugh.  "  If  you  are  a  partisan  of  his,  of  course  I 
need  not  trouble  you  with  my  views  of  the  affair.  If  I 
cannot  get  sympathy  here  in  my  old  home,  from  my  own 
sister,  I  need  hardly  look  for  it  anywhere.  After  all,"  with 
a  miserable  attempt  at  indifference,  "why  should  I  expect 
anyone  to  enter  into  my  griefs." 

"  Don't  speak  to  me  like  that,  Muriel,"  cries  Margery. 
"  Between  you  and  me  such  words  are  cruel." 

"  Let  us  think  what  is  best  to  be  done,"  breaks  in  Mrs. 
Billy,  in  a  matter-of-fact  tone. 

"  There  is  nothing  to  be  done."  Lady  Branksmere  turns 
upon  her  with  flashing  eyes.  "  Do  you  imagine  I  am  going 
to  truckle  to  a  man  who  is  not  only  false  to  me,  but  who 
takes  me  to  task  for  my  behavior  with — with  one  who  is 
an  old  friend." 

"An  old  lover"  corrects  Mrs.  Billy,  in  a  strange  tone. 
"  Let  us  keep  to  the  strict  facts.  You  were  alluding  to 
Captain  Staines?" 

"  Oh  !  Muriel,  there  is  something  to  be  said  about  that  ! " 
cries  Margery,  a  very  agony  of  nervous  horror  in  her  eyes. 


232  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

To  have  to  speak  !  Who  shall  estimate  the  misery  of  it  ? 
"Think,  darling,  think,"  she  says,  and  then  with  trembling 
hands  outheld,  she  goes  closer  to  her  sister.  "Oh,  dear, 
dear  heart,"  she  sobs.  "  Give  up  all  thought  of  that  bad 
man." 

"  Who  is  bad  ?  "  asks  Lady  Branksmere,  coldly,  with  wil- 
ful miscomprehension.  "  Branksmere  ?  " 

"No,  no,"  miserably,  "Captain  Staines.  Muriel!  Be 
warned  about  him  in  time.  I  don't  know  why,  but  instinct 
tells  me  to  distrust  him.  Oh  !  darling,  I  know  you  mean 
nothing — ever — but  what  is  good  and  sweet,  but  if  you 
could  only  understand  how  wretched  you  make  me  at 
times." 

"Do  I?"  Lady  Branksmere  is  looking  down  at  her 
with  grieved  eyes.  "  Is  it  not  enough,  then,  that  I  am  un- 
happy myself — but  that  it  must  be  my  luckless  fate  to  make 
those  I  love  unhappy,  too  ?  One's  life,  one's  circumstances, 
what  scourges  they  may  be  !"  She  sighs  heavily. 

"  Have  a  glass  of  wine,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  who  after  all  is 
nothing  if  not  practical. 

At  this  moment  the  sound  of  a  footstep  in  the  hall  out- 
side makes  itself  heard.  Muriel  starts  into  an  intenser 
life,  and,  springing  to  her  feet,  looks  with  angry  eyes  to- 
ward the  door. 

"  It  is  he,"  she  says.     "  He  has  followed  me." 


CHAPTER  XXXVI. 

"  The  hatred  of  those  who  are  most  nearly  connected  is  the  most  invet- 
erate." 

It  is,  in  fact,  Branksmere's  step.  He  had  found  his  way 
through  the  armory  door  that  she  had  left  open,  and  is  now 
in  the  hall.  A  faint  light  coming  from  beneath  the  library 
door  attracts  his  attention  ;  involuntarily  he  turns  toward 
it.  and  finds  himself  presently  staring  at  Dick  across  a  read- 
ing lamp. 

"  Where  is  your  sister  ? "  demands  he,  in  an  aggressive 
tone. 

"  Margery  and  Angelica  are  in  the  next  room,  I  think  ; 
the  twins  in  bed,"  retorts  Dick,  frowningly.  He  has  got 
upon  his  feet,  and  is  looking  at  Branksmere  with  open  en- 
mity in  his  glance.  "  Of  my  eldest  sister  you  should  know 
more  than  me." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  233 

"Is  she  here  ?  " 

"That  is  a  strange  question  for  you  to  ask.  Where 
should  she  be  at  this  hour  but  beneath  your  roof — unless 
she  was  driven  to  leave  it." 

"  A  truce  to  bombast,"  says  Branksmere,  impatiently. 
"  By  your  manner  I  can  see  she  is  here.  Go  and  tell  her 
I  wish  to  speak  to  her."  His  tone  is  imperious. 

"  You  are  a  scoundrel,"  exclaims  the  boy,  choking  with 
rage. 

Branksmere  shrugs  his  shoulders. 

"  Your  manners  are  hardly  your  strong  point,"  he  says, 
with  a  contemptuous  lifting  of  his  brows.  "  That  however, 
fortunately,  concerns  you,  not  me.  Where  is  Muriel  ?" 

"  With  her  own  people.  In  her  own  home.  What  do 
you  want  with  her?" 

"Not  much  at  any  time  :  yet  there  are  moments  when 
even  a  husband  may  find  it  necessary  to  have  an  interview 
with  the  woman  he  has  married.  Will  '  her  own  people,'  " 
mimicking  the  boy's  somewhat  grandiloquent  air  to  a 
nicety,  "  permit  it,  do  you  think  ?" 

"  I  wonder  you  are  not  ashamed  to  mention  her,"  cries 
Dick,  with  a  sudden  burst  of  pr.ssion.  "  Yes,  she  is  here. 
She  came  half  an  hour  ago.  She  went  to  Willy's  bou- 
doir. I  followed  her  there,  and  heard — heard — you  know 
what  I  heard.  She  looked  so  tired,  so  worn." 

"  I  don't,  I  assure  you,"  says  Branksmere,  ignoring  the 
latter  part  of  his  speech.  "  You  give  me  credit  for  far  too 
much  perspicacity." 

"  She  came  in  looking  so  white,  so  tired,  so  worn,  that 
even  you,  had  you  seen  her,  might  have  felt  some  pity  for 
her  in  your  cold  heart." 

"  I  shouldn't,"  replies  Branksmere  distinctly.  "  Attri- 
bute to  me  no  extra  graces,  I  entreat  you.  Pity  for  her  is 
the  very  last  thing  I  should  have  felt." 

"  I  should  have  known  that,"  says  young  Daryl,  in  a  low 
voice,  who  is  now  fast  losing  his  self-control.  "  Muriel 
prepared  me  for  it." 

"  Muriel  is  a  fool,  and  you  are  another,"  says  Branks- 
mere, coolly.  "  7  am  not !  " 

The  blood  recedes  from  Dick's  brow  and  his  large  eyes 
glow.  With  an  inarticulate  cry  he  rushes  forward  and 
flings  himself  upon  his  adversary.  In  a  moment  he  has 
his  young  lithe  fingers  fastened  into  his  collar.  He  is  a 
tall  lad,  but  slender,  and  in  less  time  than  one  can  picture 
it,  his  attack  is  at  an  end,  and  Branksmere  has  him  in  his 


234  LADY  BRANKSATERE. 

powerful  grasp.  Twisting  his  arms  behind  him  so  as  to 
leave  him  powerless  and  at  his  mercy,  he  looks  for  a  min- 
ute full  into  the  boy's  defiant  face. 

"  The  same  blood,"  he  says,  with  a  sneer,  that  ends  in  a 
groan,  and  by  a  sudden  movement  he  releases  his  foe  and 
sends  him  staggering  back  a  few  paces  from  him.  For  a 
little  while  he  regards  him  with  a  stormy  expression  in  his 
eyes  and  then — "  Pshaw  !  "  he  says,  contemptuously,  and 
turning  on  his  heel  quits  the  room. 

A  few  steps  brings  him  to  that  other  room  where  three 
pale  women  are  awaiting  his  coming.  One,  indeed,  stand- 
ing forward  with  her  eyes  afire  as  though  eager  for  the 
battle. 

Entering,  he  closes  the  door  heavily  behind  him,  and 
looks  straight  at  his  wife,  taking  no  notice  whatsoever  of 
Mrs.  Daryl  or  Margery. 

"  It  is  rather  a  late  hour  for  visiting,"  he  says.  "Are  you 
ready  to  come  home  ?  " 

"  I  am  at  home." 

"  Are  you  ready,  then,  to  return  to  the  Castle  ?  "  His 
voice,  though  subdued,  is  vibrating  with  rage.  His  face 
is  white,  his  lips  set.  There  is  a  dangerous  light  in  his 
sombre  eyes. 

"  To  prison  ?     No  !  "     returns  Muriel,  defiantly. 

She  had  stood  up  at  his  entrance,  had  even  taken  a  step 
toward  him,  and  now  confronts  him  with  a  whole  world 
of  scorn  in  her  beautiful  face.  Her  bare  arms,  white  and 
rounded,  are  hanging  by  her  sides,  the  hands  clinched. 
Her  bosom  is  rising  and  falling  tumultuously.  She  looks 
surpassingly  lovely  in  her  scorn  and  anger  ;  but  to  Branks- 
mere  she  might  be  a  creature  formed  of  Nature's  worst,  so 
coldly  does  his  glance  rest  upon  her. 

"I  hope  you  will  reconsider  that  answer,"  he  says,  slowly. 
There  is  something  in  his  manner  and  the  set  determina- 
tion of  his  tone  that  frightens  Margery. 

"  Muriel,  take  care  !  "  she  whispers  warningly,  and  places 
her  hand  on  the  back  of  her  sister's  arm,  and  presses  it 
stealthily  with  fingers  that  are  trembling  with  nervous  ag- 
itation. But  Lady  Branksmere  takes  no  outward  heed  of 
this  gentle  admonition. 

"  I  shall  reconsider  nothing."  The  words  fall  from  her, 
coldly,  clearly. 

"  Is  that  your  final  decision  ? "  As  he  speaks  he  makes 
a  slight  movement  toward  the  door,  as  though  the  par- 
ley has  come  to  an  end.  It  is  evident  to  all  he  is  not  going 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  235 

to  dispute  the  decision,  or  seek  to  alter  it  in  any  way. 
Mrs.  Billy  goes  quickly  up  to  Muriel. 

"  I  implore  you  not  to  let  things  go  too  far,"  she  says. 
"  Be  reasonable.  The  world's  opinion  is  worth  a  good 
deal." 

At  this,  Muriel's  long  felt  irritation  takes  light,  and 
flames  into  life. 

"What  do  you  all  mean  ?"  she  cries,  with  a  burst  of  pas- 
sion. "  Do  you  want  to  get  rid  of  me  ?  Am  I  a  disgrace 
to  you  ?" 

"  Muriel  !  What  folly  !  My  dear  girl,  think!"  entreats 
Mrs.  Billy  earnestly. 

"  What  can  I  think  but  that  I  am  not  wanted  by  anyone, 
here,  or  there,  or  anywhere  !  May  I  not  rest  beneath  your 
roof  for  even  one  night  ?" 

"If  you  leave  my  roof  (under  such  circumstances  as 
these)  for  one  night,  you  leave  it  forever,"  interposes 
Branksmere,  sternly. 

"  An  awful  threat  truly,"  exclaims  she  with  a  short  laugh 
full  of  reckless  defiance. 

"Oh!  Muriel  !  "  implores  Margery,  beneath  her  breath, 
who  is  now  sobbing  bitterly. 

"Am  I  to  understand  that  you  encourage  Lady  Branks- 
mere in  her  present  conduct?"  demands  Brnnksmere, 
turning  furiously  at  this  juncture  upon  Mrs.  Billy.  He 
had  not  heard  her  whispered  advice  of  a  moment  since, 
and  plainly  regards  her  as  an  accomplice.  Mrs.  Billy  very 
justly  resents  his  tone. 

"  I  tell  you  what,  Branksmere,"  returns  she  with  consid- 
erable spirit,  "you  ar.e  taking  the  wrong  turning  here. 
Muriel  has  hinted  to  me  such  and  such  matters,  and  I  will 
say  that  I  think  there  are  several  little  affairs  down  there  " 
— pointing  in  a  characteristic  fashion  in  a  direction  that 
she  fondly  but  erroneously  believes  might  take  her  to  the 
Castle,  but  which  would  be  quite  as  likely  to  take  her  to 
Japan — "  that  you  would  do  well  to  explain." 

"You  will  permit  me,  madam,  to  be  the  best  judge  of 
my  own  actions,"  retorts  he,  icily. 

"No,  I  won't,"  says  Mrs.  Billy,  with  quite  a  beautiful 
immovability.  "In  my  opinion  you  are  just  the  worst 
judge.  I  think  well  enough  of  you,  you  see,  to  believe 
you  might  explain  if  you  only  would,  and  I'd  strongly  ad- 
vise you  to  do  it  before  a  crisis  arrives.  See  ?"  She  nods 
her  head  at  him  vigorously. 

"  I  see  nothing,"  replies  he,  coldly. 


236  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"Then  all  I  can  say  is,"  exclaims  Mrs.  Billy,  with  ex- 
treme wrath,  "  that  I  no  longer  blame  Muriel,  and  that  if 
you  were  my  husband  I'd — smash  you  !" 

"  Providence,  madam,  probably  foresaw  that,"  says 
Branksmere,  dryly.  He  makes  her  an  almost  impercepti- 
ble salutation  and  turns  again  to  Muriel. 

"Are  you  coming?"  he  asks  with  a  frown. 

"  Yes;  she  is,"  returns  Mrs.  Billy,  unabashed.  She  throws, 
as  she  speaks,  a  light  shawl  round  Muriel  in  a  way  that 
admits  of  no  dispute,  and  indeed,  Muriel,  who  is  now  look- 
ing tired,  and  exhausted,  and  hopeless,  makes  no  effort  to 
resist  her. 

"As  you  all  wish  it  ;  as  I  am  unwelcome  here,  and  only 
a  trouble,  I  will  go,"  she  says,  wearily. 

"  Oh  !  no,  darling  !  Do  not  speak  like  that,"  sobs  Mar- 
gery, clinging  to  her. 

"  But  not  now — not  just  yet,"  goes  on  Lady  Branksmere, 
hardly  heeding  her  tender  embrace.  "  In  a  little  while  I 
will  go  back.  But  not  quite  now." 

"You  will  come  now,  or  not  at  all !"  Branksmere  inter- 
rupts her,  doggedly.  "  I  will  have  no  gossip — no  damning 
whispers." 

Margery  lifts  her  head  impetuously,  and  would  perhaps 
have  spoken,  but  that  Mrs.  Billy  checks  her. 

"  He  is  right — quite  right.  Let  there  be  no  scandal," 
she  whispers,  wisely.  "They  both  came  down  to  visit  us 
to-night.  Both.  Together.  You  will  remember  ?  It  was 
an  idle  freak.  There  was  nothing  in  it."  She  pushes 
Muriel,  as  she  speaks,  toward  the  door.  Branksmere, 
who  is  standing  next  to  it,  puts  out  his  hand  as  his  wife 
approaches,  and  though  still  with  a  lowering  brow,  would 
have  drawn  hers  through  his  arm.  But,  with  a  gesture  of 
extreme  repugnance,  she  pushes  him  aside  and  hurries 
from  the  room. 


CHAPTER   XXXVII. 

"Jealousy  is  love  lost  in  a  mist." 


"  I  DON'T  see  how  we  can  do  much  more  to  the  altar 
without  the  grapes,"  says  Margery,  standing  well  back  from 
the  rails,  with  her  charming  head  delicately  poised  to  one 
side,  the  better  to  comprehend  the  effect  of  her  Avork 


LADY  BKANJCSMERE.  237 

"They  should  be  here  by  this  time.  I  doubt  that  Branks- 
mere's  gardener  is  a  man  of  his  word  !  " 

"  It  is  most  remiss  of  him,"  says  Mr.  Goldic,  severely. 
Mr.  Goldie  is  the  curate  ;  a  young  man  of  faultless  morals 
and  irreproachable  clothes,  with  bolting  blue  eyes  and  nice 
plump  cheeks,  who  has  been  following  Miss  Daryl  about 
all  the  day  (indeed,  for  the  matter  of  that,  all  the  year),  and 
who  seems  to  have  small  object  in  life,  except  to  stare 
mutely  at  her,  and  hang  upon  her  lightest  word.  So  open 
has  been  his  worship,  so  reprehensible,  that  several  of  the 
old  maids  flung  loose  about  the  parish  have  mingled  exe- 
crations of  him  with  their  evening  prayers,  and  have  all 
had  serious  thoughts  of  reporting  his  abominable  conduct 
to  the  Bishop. 

Mr.  Goldie  has  cared  for  none  of  these  things.  He  is 
now  regarding  his  divinity  with  a  frown  upon  his  slightly 
narrow  brow,  meant  not  for  her,  but  for  the  recreant  min- 
ion at  Branksinere,  who  has  dared  to  keep  her  waiting, 
and  who,  in  Mr.  Goldie's  eyes,  is  plainly  on  the  fair  road 
to  make  acquaintance  with  the  new  gentleman — who  has 
kindly  come  forward  to  relieve  us  of  our  criminals — and 
his  rope.  f 

Yet  again,  a  summer  fair  and  sweet  lies  slain,  and 
autumn,  that  rich  conqueror,  is  strewing  the  earth  with  his 
spoils.  From  Branksmere  all  the  guests  have  melted  away 
with  sunny  June — some  to  a  last  week  or  so  in  town,  some 
to  their  own  homes  in  the  neighborhood,  some  in  hot  haste 
to  the  Engadine,  so  intensely  suffocating  had  the  weather 
proved  here. 

Tommy  Paulyn  has  run  down  to  stay  with  the  Daryls 
for  a  while,  and  Captain  Staines,  who  had  put  in  a  month 
with  the  Adairs,  has  now  hired  a  neat  little  box  of  a  place 
about  a  mile  from  Branksmere,  ostensibly  for  the  shoot- 
ing. 

To  feel  one's  self  well  into  September — that  mildest, 
tenderest,  most  mournful  month  of  all  the  year — (so  full, 
as  it  is,  of  a  glad  past,  so  fraught  with  cruel  fears  of  a 
harsh  future),  is  to  know  a  sense  of  the  most  chastened, 
the  most  exquisite  enjoyment.  The  vicar,  for  certain  goodly 
reasons,  had  been  obliged  to  put  off  his  harvest  thanks- 
giving festival  until  rather  late  this  year,  but  now  the 
ancient,  mossgrown  church  is  alive  with  the  voice  of  the 
decorator,  and  is  so  disorderly  in  appearance,  because  of 
the  brandies,  and  flowers,  and  fruits,  and  vegetable  offer- 
ings, so  profusely  flung  in  a  helter-skelter  fashion  among  its 


238  LADY  BRANKSMEKE. 

respectable  aisles  and  decent  pews,  that  one  feels  instinc- 
tively sorry  for  the  lost  dignity  of  the  poor  old  thing. 
Wreaths  are  hanging  from,  or  twining  themselves  round, 
every  available  pillar;  flowers  are  lying  about  in  a  gor- 
geous profusion.  Nothing  remains  to  be  desired  save  the 
Branksmere  grapes. 

"  They  will  be  here  soon,  Meg.  It  was  my  fault — the 
delay,"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  who  has  come  down  to 
look  round  her  perhaps,  because  she  certainly  hasn't  as- 
sisted them  in  any  way.  She  is  looking  pale,  and  not 
altogether  her  best  ;  one  must  be  happy  to  look  that. 

"  Let  us  see  to  the  completion  of  the  chancel,  then,"  says 
Mr.  Goldie,  in  his  most  pompous  tone.  "  I  fear  those  we 
left  in  charge"  (he  says  the  "we  "  with  a  fond,  but  unfor- 
tunately rather  foolish  look  at  Margery)  "  are  not  quite  as 
steady  as  we  could  wish  them." 

Miss  Daryl,  with  an  inward  regret  that  she  cannot  make 
him  as  unsteady  as  she  could  wish  him,  follows  him  into 
the  presence  of  a  most  boisterous  group  who  are  busy 
among  ferns  and  cauliflowers.  Tommy  Paulyn,  on  the 
top  of  a  ladder,  is  giving  way  to  much  abuse  to  the  boys, 
interlarded  with  tender  speeches,  directed  at  the  bevy  of 
pretty  damsels  beneath. 

"  Dear  me,  Tommy,  I  never  thought  to  see  you  so  high 
up  in  the  world,"  Miss  Daryl  calls  out  to  him,  jeeringly. 
She  feels  her  spirits  rise  as  she  gets  into  the  middle  of 
them,  having  been  rather  depressed  by  Mr.  Goldie's  atten- 
tions during  the  last  half  hour. 

"  I'll  descend  to  your  level  in  a  moment  or  two,"  re- 
sponds the  Hon.  Tommy,  affably  ;  "  meantime  I  wish  some- 
body would  do  something.  Here  I  am  stuck  up  aloft,  and 
not  a  soul  will  give  me  a  helping  hand.  Have  those  mas- 
sive edibles  run  short,  or  do  the  ferns  grow  shy  ?  Who's 
responsible  for  the  loss  of  time  ?  Shiver  my  timbers  !  but 
I'll  know  the  meaning  of  all  this  when  next  I  set  foot  on 
terra  firma.  Neat  and  appropriate  remark,  eh  Miss  Jones  ? 
Ladders  are  timbers.  See  ?  If  you  were  to  shiver  my  tim- 
bers at  this  moment  I  should  be — where  should  I  be,  Mr. 
Goldie  ? " 

Mr.  Goldie  looks  very  properly  indignant,  and  Miss 
Jones  having  suppressed  her  giggle,  Angelica  casts  a 
withering  glance  at  the  unabashed  Tommy. 

"Come  down,"  she  says,  sternly.  Mr.  Paulyn,  though 
plainly  impressed  by  her  severity,  still  hesitates. 

"  Angelica,"  he  says,  in  a  propitiatory  way.    No  answer. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


239 


"'  Angel,  ever  bright  and  fair.'"  Still  the  third  Miss 
Daryl  maintains  a  dignified  reserve. 

"All  right,  then,"  says  Mr.  Paulyn,  now  driven  to  des- 
peration, "  I'll  come  down  and  have  it  out  with  yon."  He 
scrambles  down  from  his  perch,  and,  having  inserted  his 
hand  in  Angelica's  arm,  carries  her  off  nolens  volens  to  have 
it  out  in  the  churchyard. 

"  How  pretty  it  begins  to  look,"  says  Mrs.  Daryl,  gazing 
round  her  at  the  bright  leaves,  and  fruits,  and  flowers. 
She  addresses  Margery. 

"  Very.  They  are  all  new  designs,  those  arrangements 
over  there.  Curzon  got  them  from  town.  From  what 
house,  Curzon  ?  No,"  to  one  of  the  twins  who  is  soliciting 
her  consent  about  something,  "Indeed,  not.  You  know 
you  have  a  cold.  You  must  not  run  about  the  churchyard 
without  some  muffling." 

"  Oh  !  Meg.     But  I'm  so  hot !  " 

"Well,"  relenting  in  part.  "You  may  go  out  for  half 
an  hour  or  so,  but  no  more  ;  because  the  evening  is  grow- 
ing chilly.  You  must  come  in  then,  and  put  on  your  coat. 
Now  be  off,  but  remember — in  half  an  hour  I  shall  expect 
you.  I  depend  upon  you  to  come." 

The  child's  face  falls. 

"  I  think."  she  says,  disconsolately,  "that  I'll  put  on  the 
coat  now,  Meg,  before  I  go.  Because  I  don't  know  what 
half  an  hour  is,  and  I'm  sure  I'm  not  to  be  depended  up- 
on." 

Mrs.  Billy,  who  is  near,  bursts  out  laughing. 

"  What  a  conscientious  little  creature  ! "  she  says. 
"There!"  taking  Blanche's  hand,  "you  shall  have  some- 
thing nice  for  that  when  we  get  home  ;  and  now  run  away 
and  be  happy  without  your  coat,  because  I'll  watch  the 
time,  and  I'll  see  that  you  are  called  in  half  an  hour  to  do 
Meg's  bidding." 

"I'm  so  afraid  of  her  catching  cold,"  explains  Meg,  apol- 
ogetically. 

"  What  an  imprudent  fear  !  '*  declares  Tommy  Paulyn, 
who  has  once  more  returned  to  their  midst  in  high  feather, 
with  a  propitiated  Angel  beside  him.  "Catch  your  cold 
by  all  means,  my  dear  Blanche,  and  hold  it  tight  and  bring 
it  to  me,  and  I'll  soon  cut  the  head  off  it." 

To  Blanche  this  seems  such  an  exquisite  joke  that  she 
runs  off  roaring  with  laughter  in  her  small,  happy  way. 

"  Look  at  Meg  trying  to  wear  out  her  fingers  with  that 
thorny  stuff,"  says  Peter,  admiringly.  "  Was  there  ever  so 


240  LADY  BRA  \~KSM  ERE. 

plastic  a  being.  Indolent  to-day,  full  of  pluck  to-morrow. 
Her  nails  are  one  of  her  good  points,  she  might  consider 
them." 

"  It  seems  to  me,"  puts  in  Mr.  Goldie,  mildly,  with  a  re- 
proachful glance  at  the  young  men  round  him,  among 
whom  are  Curzon  Bellew  and  Mr.  Paulyn,  "  that  Miss 
Daryl  might  be  spared  such  arduous  work.  Her  zeal  is  so 
great  that  it  outstrips  her  strength." 

"  It  strips  her  skin,"  supplements  the  Hon.  Tommy,  who 
seldom  minces  matters.  "  It  will  play  old  Harry  with  her 
hands,  and  they  used  to  be  tolerable." 

"Your  cousin,  Mr.  Paulyn,  has  the  most  beautiful  hands 
in  the  world,"  says  the  curate,  solemnly.  "  So  white  !  so 
fine  !  " 

<;  Fine  !  "  echoes  Peter,  with  a  gay  laugh.  "  They  sJtould 
be  !  Why,  I  should  think  they  ought  to  be  almost  kissed 
away  by  this  time  !  " 

Upon  two  of  the  audience  this  startling  remark  makes 
a  distinct  effect.  Mr.  Goldie  regards  the  speaker  with  a 
sanctified  disgust,  and  Curzon  Bellew  looks  as  if  he  would 
like  to  slaughter  somebody — Mr.  Goldie,  who  happens  to 
be  nearest  to  him,  first  speaks. 

"  I  am  sure,  Peter,"  says  the  reverend  gentleman,  with 
ecclesiastical  reproach,  "  that  your  sister  would  be  deeply 
grieved  could  she  hear  you  ascribe  to  her  such  frivolous 
ways." 

"  I  haven't  ascribed  anything  to  her"  declares  Peter,  who 
is  growing  amused.  "It  is  the  young  men  who  have  re- 
duced her  poor  paws  to  this  present  state  of  attenuation 
who  ought  to  be  taken  to  task." 

'•'I  think  it  is  not  well  that  you  should  in  such  a  public 
— in  fact  in  such  a — er — sacred  place,  discuss  your  sister  at 
all.  It  would  be  offensive  to  many,  I  am  sure,  to  be  so 
spoken  of.  Could  she — that  is  would  she — I  mean  "- 
floundering  hopelessly — "were  she  the  object  of  my  affec- 
tions I  should  — 

"  Oh  !  Mr.  Goldie,  to  call  poor  Margery  an  'object  ! '  I 
wouldn't  have  believed  it  of  you.  And  we  used  to  think 
you  quite  her  friend  !  Margery  !  "  calling  lustily,  "do  you 
know  what  Mr.  Goldie  says  of — 

"No,  no  ;  no,  I  entreat!"  exclaims  the  poor  curate,  al- 
most laying  his  hand  on  Peter's  mouth,  who  is  in  ecstacies. 
"  I  meant  nothing — only  to  defend  your  sister  from  — 

"And  who  the  deuce  arejw/,  sir,  to  set  yourself  up  as 
Miss  Daryl's  champion,"  exclaims  Bellew,  with  a  burst  of 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  241 

wrath  that  has  been  gathering  above  the  head  of  the  luck- 
less curate  for  over  a  month.  "  When  she  needs  a  friend 
to  plead  her  cause  she  will  know  where  to  look  for  an  older 
one  than  you  !  " 

After  this,  chaos — and  a  general  rout.  The  bystanders 
very  wisely  abscond,  and  even  Margery  herself  very  meanly 
slips  round  a  corner  into  the  vestry  room,  feeling  assured 
that  Curzon's  black  looks  and  Mr.  Goldie's  red  ones,  have 
something  to  do  with  her. 

But  in  the  vestry  vengeance  overtakes  her.  Mr.  Goldie, 
either  stung  to  action  by  Bellew's  conduct,  or  eager  to 
'  put  it  to  the  touch,  to  win  or  lose  it  all,'  follows  her  there 
and  lays  himself,  his  goods  and  chattels,  all — (which  is 
very  little)  at  her  feet.  It  takes  only  a  few  minutes,  and 
then  Margery  emerges  again  into  the  wider  air  outside,  a 
little  flushed,  a  little  repentant  perhaps  for  those  half-hours 
of  innocent  coquetry  that  had  led  the  wretched  man  to  his 
doom — to  find  herself  in  the  midst  of  a  home  group  com- 
posed of  Peter,  Dick,  Angelica,  and  Mr.  Bellew.  The  lat- 
ter is  standing  gloomily  apart  ;  the  others  make  toward 
her. 

"  We  saw  him  following  you — well  ?  What  ?  He  must 
have  said  something !  We  saw  it  in  his  eye  ;  a  sort  of  'now 
or  never,'  'do  or  die,'  look.  Get  it  out,  Meg,  you'll  beany 
amount  happier  when  you  have  got  it  off  your  con- 
science." 

"  It  is  abominable  of  you  all,"  exclaims  Margery.  But 
even  as  this  rebuke  escapes  her,  so  does  an  irrepressible 
laugh. 

"Come.  No  shirking,"  says  Dick,  as  she  makes  a  futile 
effort  to  dodge  them  and  gain  the  door  beyond.  "I  told 
you  that  gown  \vould  be  the  ruin  of  someone.  It  is  too 
racy." 

"  And  you  look  simply  lovely  in  it,"  declares  Angelica, 
who  is  devoured  with  curiosity,  and  thinks  flattery  a  wise 
medium  for  the  extracting  of  secrets.  "  Now,  go  on,  do  ! 
Tell  us  what  he  said  to  you.  Did  he  propose  to  you  ? 
Meg  !  on  your  soul  be  it  if  you  lie." 

Margery's  glance  roves  from  one  to  the  other.  It  alter- 
nates between  an  anxious  desire  to  escape  and  be  at  rest, 
and  a  mild  longing  to  tell  them  of  her  latest  victory. 

"Well,  to  tell  you  the  truth,"  begins  she. 

"Oh!  come.  That  won't  do.  No  lies!"  says  Peter, 
promptly-  "  Did  he  or  did  he  not  ask  you  to  marry  him  ?  " 

"  Why  should  he  do  that  ?"  asks  Meg,  at  bay. 
16 


242  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Why  shouldn't  he  ?  I'm  sure  you've  had  him  dangling 
after  you  long  enough  for  anything.  And  to-day  you've 
flirted  with  him  at  every  opportunity,  and  pillar,  until 
even  we  thought  you  meant  to  accept  him." 

"  Perhaps  you  thought  right,"  says  Miss  Daryl,  goaded 
into  retribution.  This  speech  is  received  in  silence  ;  evi- 
dently they  hardly  know  whether  or  not  a  grain  of  truth 
may  be  hidden  in  it.  Mr.  Bellew  lifts  his  head  with  the 
quick  action  of  one  who  is  shot,  and  looks  straight  at  her. 

"  Oh,  no,  Meg,"  declares  Angelica,  gently.  "  You  would 
not  marry  that  conceited  little  man,  I  know.  He  thinks 
too  much  of  himself  to  be  anything  but  odious.  I'm  sure 
he  looks  upon  himself  as  the  '  Church's  one  foundation,' 
without  which  it  would  totter  to  its  fall." 

"  You  shouldn't  hurt  my  feelings,"  returns  Margery,  with 
such  a  gay  little  laugh  that  at  once  equanimity  is  restored. 

"  Tell  us  how  he  got  through  it,"  says  Dick,  seizing  her 
arm.  Perhaps  there  may  be  a  brotherly  pinch  inclosed 
in  his  grasp,  because  he  receives  an  instant  answer. 

"  Well,  he  said— Oh,  Dick,  don't— 

"What  a  story  !"  exclaims  Angelica,  very  naturally. 

"  No.  He  said  first  in  a  solemn  tone,  cpropos  of  the 
decorations  in  other  corners  of  the  globe,  '  It  is  a  pity 
they  should  waste  so  much  time -over  art,  to  the  exclusion 
of  the  more  vital  matters  ! '  That  was  all." 

"All  about  that"  persists  Dick,  who  would  have  made  a 
splendid  Inquisitor.  "But  how  about  yourself?  The  last 
remark  was  in  the  style  of  the  best  form  of  tract  ;  but 
what  is  he  like  when  spooning,  eh  ? " 

"  What  did  he  say?  "  asks  Angelica. 

"  He  said,"  returns  Miss  Daryl,  desperately,  " '  Will 
you  ?  Won't  you  ?  Don't  you  ? '  At  which  I  said  (not 
dreaming  what  the  old  absurdity  was  thinking  of),  '  Shall 
I  ?  Shan't  I  ?  Do  I  ?  What  ?  '  And  then  it  all  came  out ! 
And  I'm  sure  I'm  very  sorry,  because  I  never  meant  to  en- 
courage him." 

"Not  you,"  says  Peter.  "  A  scalp  more  or  less  is  noth- 
ing to  you,  bless  you.  Well,  and  what  did  you  say  ?  " 

"  No  ;  of  course.     I  was  so  thoroughly  unprepared  that 

"  '  Meg  was  meek  and  Meg  was  mild, 
And  bonny  Meg  was  nature's  child,'  '' 

quotes  Dick,  sotto  voce. 

"  You  needn't  jeer  at  me,"  says  Meg,  reproachfully.  "  I 
may  be  bad,  but,  at  all  events,  I  am  not  worse !  And  I 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  243 

know  I  never  led  him  on  as  far  as  I  did  the  others,  be- 
cause  " 

She  stops  abruptly,  her  eyes  having  by  chance  lighted 
upon  the  wrathful  visage  of  Bellew,  who  has  been  loung- 
ing in  the  shade  of  the  lectern. 

"  It  is  just  as  well  you  didn't  accept  him.  He  wouldn't 
suit  you.  He  looks  as  if  he  belonged  to  one  of  the  lost 
tribes,"  says  Dick.  "  Do  you  think  he  will  bear  malice  ? 
Must  you  give  him  a  wide  berth  for  the  future  ?" 

"  Poor  Mr.  Goldie  !  No.  He  is  a  very  good  little 
man,"  answers  Angelica,  pitifully. 

"  With  a  heart  of  Gold,"  puts  in  Peter,  mildly. 

"  I  say,  children,  where  are  you  all  ? "  cries  Mrs.  Billy 
at  this  moment,  calling  to  them  through  the  gathering 
gloom.  They  run  to  her,  all  save  Margery,  who  would,  in- 
deed, gladly  have  beaten  an  ignominious  retreat  in  their 
train,  and  so  avoided  the  moody  young  man,  so  plainly 
lying  in  wait  for  her.  But  he  proves  too  much  for  even 
her  strategies. 

"I  want  to  speak  to  you,"  exclaims  he,  grasping  her  by 
the  ribbons  that  ornament  the  side  of  her  gown,  as  she  en- 
deavors to  slip  past  him.  Of  course  the  ribbons  give  way, 
and  he  finds  himself  the  happy  possessor  of  them,  with  a 
most  indignant  Margery  demanding  an  explanation  of  his 
conduct. 

"  I  really  do  wish,  Curzon,  you  would  try  to  learn  the 
meaning  of  the  word  '  manners,'  "  she  says,  angrily,  look- 
ing at  the  ravished  ribbons.  "  I  have  always  told  you 
your  temper  will  be  your  destruction.  Now  see  where  it 
has  led  you."  Secretly  she  is  delighted  at  the  chance  af- 
forded her  of  putting  him  in  the  wrong. 

"  I'm  sorry  for  your  gown,"  says  Mr.  Bellew,  who  indeed 
does  look  rather  shocked.  "  But  speak  to  you  I  will.  So 
all  this  last  month,  when  you  were  pretending  to  be  so 
quiet,  you  were  cajoling  that  miserable  Goldie  into  falling 
in  love  with  you." 

"What  do  you  mean,  Curzon  ?  Do  you  know  what  you 
are  saying  ?  Are  you  going  to  tell  me  that  I  encouraged 
him  ? " 

"  You  must  have  encouraged  him  disgracefully,  when 
he  had  the — the  audacity  to  propose  to  you." 

"  If  you  hadn't  been  meanly  listening  to  what  wasn't 
meant  for  your  ears,  you  wouldn't  have  known  that." 

"Certainly  I  listened.  I  shall  always  listen  to  anything 
that  concerns  you" 


244  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Well  !     Anything  so  dishonorable " 

"  I  don't  care  a  fig  whether  it  is  dishonorable  or  not. 
I'm  determined  I'll  know,  at  all  events.  So  that's  what 
brought  you  to  the  weekly  practice  so  regularly.  All  your 
interest  in  the  fiddling  and  psalming  of  this  wretched  vil- 
lage choir  lay  in  your  desire  to  add  yet  another  scalp  to 
your  belt." 

"Go  on,  don't  mind  me,"  murmurs  Miss  Daryl,  with 
ominous  sweetness. 

"It  was  Mr.  Goldie  this,  and  Mr.  Goldie  that.  I  must 
have  been  blind  not  to  see  it  all.  You  permitted  him  to 
make  love  to  you,  and  to  consider  himself  your  mentor 
in  all  things." 

"Did  I?"  with  awful  dignity.  "I  wasn't  aware  of  it. 
At  all  events,"  with  an  angry  flash  from  her  soft  eyes,  "  I 
never  gave  anyone  permission  to  be  my  tormentor." 

"There  can  be  no  more  abominable  coquetry,  than  the 
leading  on  of  a  man  to  offer  you  his  best,  for  the  mere 
pleasure  of  refusing  him.  You  know  you  never  meant  to 
marry  him." 

"Is  that  my  crime?  Would  you  prefer  that  I  should 
marry  him  ? " 

"  Margery  !     What  a  speech  to  make  to  me." 

"  Are  you  to  have  all  the  pretty  speeches  to  yourself? 
Be  happy,  however,  in  the  certainty  that  I  shall  never 
marry  either  him  or  you." 

"  I  have  said  perhaps  too  much.  I  have  a  beastly  tem- 
per, I  know,  though  I  never  seem  to  remember  it  until  I 
am  with  you,"  says  Bellew,  brushing  his  hand  across  his 
forehead  with  a  sigh.  "  But  you  don't  mean  that,  Mar- 
gery ? " 

"  To  marry  Mr.  Goldie  ?  " 

"  No,  not  to  marry  me." 

"Certainly  I  mean  it." 

"Only  last  week  you  gave  me  to  understand  that  you 
would  be  my  wife." 

"  '  Might '  was  the  word  used,  I  think." 

"  Well,  '  might '  let  it  be." 

'  I've  changed  my  mind  since  then." 

"That's  the  fifth  time  you  have  changed  it  this  year." 

"  Be  satisfied.     It  shall  be  the  last,  I  promise  you." 

"  You  mean,"  growing  once  more  wrathful,  "  that  you 
wont  marry  me." 

"  That  is  it." 

"  But  why  ?  "  demands  he,   indignantly.      "  What's    the 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  245 

matter  with  me,  I'd  like  to  know.  Why  can't  you  make 
up  your  mind  to  it  ?" 

"A  jealous  man  makes  a  miserable  home,"  quotes  she, 
sententiously. 

"  Who  is  jealous  ?  Do  you  think  I  should  feel  jealous 
of  that  unfortunate  little  long-tailed  parson  in  there  ? " 
pointing  to  the  vestry  door,  behind  which  Mr.  Goldie  is 
supposed  to  be  seated,  clothed  in  sackcloth  and  ashes. 
"  Give  me  credit  for  better  sense  than  that.  No,  I  am 
only  annoyed  that  you  should — er — that  he  should — that 
er — in  fact " 

"  We  should?"  suggests  Miss  Daryl,  demurely,  as  he 
breaks  down  hopelessly. 

There  is  a  pause.  He  looks  at  her  appealingly.  There 
is  so  much  submission  in  his  glance  that  Margery,  whose 
ill-tempers  are  fleeting,  stealing  a  look  at  him  from  under 
her  curling  lashes,  forgives  him.  She  struggles  with  her- 
self for  a  moment,  and  then  bursts  into  the  gayest  of  pretty 
laughs. 

"I'm  a  cross  old  cat,  am  I  not?"  she  says,  penitently, 
tucking  her  arm  into  his.  "  Never  mind.  I'm  very  fond 
of  you,  after  all,  in  spite  of  your  many  enormities." 

"You  are  an  angel,"  returns  he,  with  all  the  sweet  folly 
of  a  real  lover.  He  takes  her  hands  and  lifts  them. 

At  this  instant  a  piercing  cry  full  of  agony  comes  to 
them  from  the  inner  porch  !  Margery's  face  blanches. 

"What  was  that?  What?"  she  cries,  in  a  terrible 
whisper.  And  then — "//  was  Mays  voice,"  she  says,  and 
rushes  past  him  to  the  spot  from  whence  the  sound  came. 


CHAPTER  XXXVIII. 

"  A  viper  in  the  bosom,  who,  while  he  was  chill,  was  harmless  ;  but 
when  warmth  gave  him  strength,  exerted  it  in  poison.'' 

UPON  the  stone  pavement  the  little  form  is  lying  quite 
motionless.  The  ladder  from  which  she  had  fallen  is  still 
quivering  from  the  shock.  There  is  a  moment's  breath- 
less pause,  and  then  it  is  Lady  Branksmere — the  cold,  the 
impassive — who  first  reaches  her.  She  gathers  the  little, 
still  child  gently  to  her  breast,  holding  her  to  her  with  a 
pressure  passionate  but  very  soft,  and  looks  up  at  Curzon 
— who,  with  Margery,  is  at  her  side  almost  at  once — with 


246  LADY  BKANKSMERE. 

a  glance  full  of  the  acutest  anguish.  This  little  home  bird, 
this  small  link  upon  the  chain  that  binds  her  to  all  things 
good,  is  it  going  from  her  ? 

The  despair  in  her  eyes  startles  Mrs.  Daryl,  and  even  at 
this  supreme  moment  sets  her  wondering.  If  this  un- 
demonstrative woman  can  thus  love  a  little  sister,  how 
could  she  not  love —  She  hardly  finishes  her  own 
thought,  a  moan  from  the  child  going  to  her  very  heart. 

"Let  me  see,"  says  Curzon,  bending  over  Lady  Branks- 
mere's  burden  as  if  to  take  it. 

"  No,  no,"  she  entreats,  eagerly.  "  But  tell  me  the  truth  : 
she  is  not " 

"  Of  course  not,"  interrupts  he,  hastily.  "  Her  heart  is 
beating.  The  arms — yes — all  the  little  limbs  are  sound. 
It  is  only  a  light  matter,  believe  me." 

The  child  stirs  uneasily  in  her  arms,  and,  opening  her 
eyes,  looks  vaguely  round  her,  then  once  more  sinks  into 
unconsciousness. 

"  I  will  take  her  home  with  me.  Who  will  go  for  a  doc- 
tor ?"  demands  Lady  Branksmere,  staggering  to  her  feet 
with  Curzon's  aid,  but  never  loosing  her  hold  of  the  in- 
jured child. 

"  Peter  has  already  gone.  But  we  have  told  him  to  go 
direct  home,"  says  Margery.  "Dear  Muriel,  the  doctor 
will  be  there  before  us,  so  you  see  it  would  be  madness  to 
take  her  to  the  Castle.  Come  with  us,  and  hear  what  his 
opinion  will  be."  She  breaks  down  a  little.  "  Oh,  it  must 
be  a  favorable  one,"  she  sobs,  miserably. 

After  all,  it  is!  "May  had  sustained  a  severe  shock," 
said  little  Dr.  Bland ;  had  fractured  her  collar  bone  and 
bruised  one  arm  very  badly,  but  otherwise  there  was  no 
reason  for  supposing  she  would  not  be  on  her  feet  again 
in  no  time.  Lady  Branksrnere,  having  listened  to  this 
comforting  assurance,  had  suffered  herself  to  be  driven 
home  with  the  declared  intention  of  coming  up  again  to- 
night to  hear  the  very  last  account,  at  eleven  possibly — 
certainly  not  before — as  there  were  some  prosy  old  coun- 
try folk  to  dinner. 

It  is  now  eleven,  and  a  lovely,  starlit  night  it  is  ;  al- 
most as  the  big  clock  in  the  further  end  of  the  hall  gives 
up  its  last  stroke,  Muriel  steps  across  the  threshold  of  her 
old  home,  and  wrapped  in  her  big  plush  cloak  hurries 
along  the  hall  and  up  the  staircase  to  the  room  of  the  lit- 
tle invalid.  The  hush,  the  silence,  the  lowered  lamp,  all 
seem  to  impress  her.  She  falls  upon  her  knees  beside 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  247 

the  pretty  snowy  cot,  and  gazes  with  anxious,  sorrowful 
eyes  at  its  small  occupant. 

"  She  looks  already  better.  She  sleeps  placidly,"  she 
whispers,  turning  to  Angelica. 

"All  is  well  with  her,"  whispers  Angelica  back  again. 
"Do  not  be  so  troubled  for  her.  She  has  taken  nourish- 
ment and  spoken  to  us  all,  and  to-night  Willie  and  Nurse 
sit  up  with  her ;  to-morrow  night  they  have  promised  to 
Margery,  and  the  next  to  me  " — with  subdued  pride. 

"  Wilheimina  is  very  good,"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  ris- 
ing to  her  feet.  With  the  assurance  of  the  child's  safety, 
there  has  returned  to  her  her  usual  coldness  and  apparent 
unconcern.  They  have  all  been  apportioned  their  night 
to  watch  beside  the  precious  little  sufferer — but  there  is 
nothing  for  her.  She  has  been  cast  off  from  them.  She 
has  chosen  her  own  bed,  so  let  her  lie.  She  kisses  An- 
gelica and  steals  from  the  room.  Below,  Margery  and 
Mrs.  Billy  meet  her. 

"  She  is  better  ;  immensely  better." 

"  Going  already,  Muriel  ?  But  we  could  send  you  home 
in  an  hour  or  so.  It  is  not  so  very  late.  Barely  eleven." 

"  I  have  my  maid,  Bridgman.  She  is  as  good  as  a  regi- 
ment," returns  Muriel,  faintly  smiling.  "No,  you  must 
not  trouble  yourselves.  I  shall  come  up  again  in  the 
morning  to  see  how  the  poor  mite  is  getting  on." 

Her  manner  is  altogether  changed  ;  is  kindly,  but  no 
longer  consumed  with  anxiety.  There  is  a  suspicion  of 
strain  about  it,  and  a  chill  that  communicates  itself. 

"  Do  let  me  order  the  brougham  for  you,"  says  Mrs. 
Billy,  hospitably. 

"No,  thank  you.  No,  indeed.  Bridgman,  as  I  have 
said,  is  invaluable,  and  I  shall  enjoy  the  run  through  the 
moonlit  woods." 

She  bids  them  good-night,  and  disappears  from  them 
into  the  darkness  of  the  rhododendrons  beyond. 

It  is  an  entire  surprise  to  herself  when  half  way  up  the 
avenue,  at  the  spot  where  one  turns  aside  to  gain  the  wood- 
land path  that  will  lead  into  the  Branksmere  domain,  a 
dark  figure  emerges  from  a  clump  of  myrtles  and  stands 
before  her.  It  is  Captain  Staines.  A  sense  of  caution, 
suggested  by  the  maid's  presence,  compels  him  to  meet 
her  coldly,  and  as  one  might  who  is  surprised  by  her  pres- 
ence here  at  such  an  hour. 

"  Rather  late  for  you,  Lady  Branksmere,  isn't  it  ?  Hadn't 
a  suspicion  I  should  meet  anything  human  when  I  came 


248  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

up  here  to-night  for  my  usual  stroll.  As  a  rule  my  cigar 
and  I  have  it  all  to  ourselves." 

Even  Muriel  herself  believes  him. 

"  My  little  sister  was  not  well,"  she  explains,  curtly.  "  I 
came  to  bid  her  good-night,  and  hear  the  very  last  news." 

Bridgman  has  dropped  behind.  In  the  increasing  gloom 
of  the  trees  she  is  indeed  nowhere  to  be  seen.  Captain 
Staines  taking  Lady  Branksmere's  hand  lays  it  courteously 
upon  his  arm. 

"To  see  where  those  treacherous  roots  are  lying  in  wait 
for  us  across  the  path  is  so  difficult  in  this  uncertain  light," 
he  murmurs,  apologetically.  And  then  in  a  lower  tone,  "  I 
heard  to-day  about  your  grief,  your  anxiety.  Oh,  believe 
that  I  felt,  too,  not  only  for  your  grief,  but  for  the  pain  of 
that  dear  little  child." 

His  tone  is  so  sympathetic,  so  replete  with  real  feeling, 
that  Muriel's  heart  is  touched. 

"  How  is  she  now  ?  "  he  asks  in  a  low  whisper.  "  I 
would  have  gone  up  to  the  house  to  ask,  but  you  know  I 
am  no  favorite  there." 

The  moonlight  enables  her  to  see  the  little  sad  smile 
that  mantles  his  countenance.  Is  she  the  cause  of  his  rus- 
tication ?  A  heavy  sigh  escapes  her.  She  is  feeling  sore 
at  heart,  and  now  this  stranger,  this  outsider,  how  kind  he 
is,  how  good  ;  how  anxious  to  learn  of  the  little  one's  well 
being. 

"She  is  better,"  she  answers,  softly;  "and  as  for  grief 
•  There  is  always  grief." 

"  Not  always.  And  even  if  there  is,  there  is  Love  the 
purifier,  the  sweetener  of  our  lives,  to  step  in  and  conquer 
it." 

"  Is  there  ?"  Her  tone  is  listless.  Already  a  doubt  of 
the  love  of  those  she  has  left  behind  in  the  old  home  is 
torturing  her.  She  feels  cast  off,  abandoned. 

"  Does  your  heart  hold  a  doubt  of  it  ?  Oh  !  Muriel,  if  I 
dared  speak " 

"Well,  you  dare  not,"  interrupts  she,  coldly.  "I  have 
your  word  for  that.  Once  you  forgot  yourself.  Once," 
with  a  burst  of  angry  honesty,  "  /,  too,  forgot  myself.  Let 
there  be  no  repetition  of  the  folly."  Then  abruptly,  "When 
do  you  leave  this  place  ? " 

"I  don't  know.     I  cannot  bring  myself  to  leave  it." 

"  But  why — why  ?  "  with  feverish  impatience. 

"  I  have  told  you  long  ago.  I  cannot  leave  you  and  your 
troubles." 


LADY  BRAVK'SMERR.  249 

"  What  are  my  troubles  to  you  ? "  demands  she,  fiercely. 
"  Let  them  lie.  There  is  but  one  service  you  can  do  me. 
Yet  you  shrink  from  it." 

"Why  should  my  absence  serve  you  ?"  asks  he,  boldly. 
"Do  you  think  he  cares  ?  Or  is  it  that  I  give  him  a  pre- 
text for "  He  checks  himself  suddenly.  "  Do  you  think 

I  have  spent  no  weary  nights  over  this  question  of  my  de- 
parture ?"  he  breaks  out  presently,  with  a  passion  that,  to 
do  him  justice,  is  only  half  feigned.  "That  I  have  not 
tried  to  tear  myself  away  ?  I  tell  you  that  my  love  for  you 
is  too  strong  for  me.  It  binds  me  here.  And  besides, 
there  is  the  strange  certainty  that  some  day  I  may  be  of 
use  to  you.  Griefs  thicken  ;  and  if  I  can  help  you  even 
ever  so  lightly,  are  not  all  these  weary  hours  of  waiting  well 
bestowed  ?  You  bid  me  be  silent ;  but  how  can  I  refrain 
from  speech  when  many  of  your  sorrows  are  but  too  well 
known  to  me  ;  your  trials " 

"  Of  which  you  are  chiefest,"  cries  she,  with  quick  vehe- 
mence. "  Can  you  not  guess  what  your  staying  means  to 
me!  Scorn,  insult,  contempt !"  She  presses  her  hands 
forcibly  together.  "  Go  !  "  she  mutters,  in  a  low,  com- 
pressed tone.  "  When  will  you  go  ?" 

"  When  you  will  come  with  me!" 

The  words  are  spoken  !  Given  to  the  air  !  Nothing 
can  recall  them ! 

The  thought  that  she  is  cold — shivering — is  the  first  that 
comes  to  her.  She  gathers  the  slight  covering  on  her 
shoulders  tighter  round  her,  and  her  large  troubled  eyes 
look  out  from  the  lace  hood  that  shrouds  her  face,  with  a 
sense  of  vague  fear  in  them  that  is  very  sad.  She  turns 
them  upon  him. 

"  Is  there  no  friendship  ?  "  she  asks  at  last,  slowly,  sor- 
rowfully. 

"  What  is  friendship  ?"  returns  Staines.  "It  is  so  poor 
a  thing  that  no  man  knows  where  it  begins  or  where  it 
ends.  A  touch  of  flattery  may  blow  it  into  a  flame  ;  a  dis- 
pute about  a  five-pound  note  will  kill  it.  I  do  not  profess 
friendship  for  you.  I  do  not  believe  in  it ;  there  is  some- 
thing stronger,  more  enduring  than  that.  Muriel,  trust  in 
me." 

"  There  is  no  friendship,  you  say.  Is  there,  then, 
faith?" 

"In  those  who  love  you  ?"  eagerly.  "Yes.  If  I  have 
spoken  too  openly — too  soon,  forgive  me.  But  should 
the  day  come  " — his  voice  sinks  to  a  whisper — "  when  es- 


250  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

cape  will  become  a  necessity  to  you — and  I  do  not  think 
that  day  is  far  off — think  of  me.  Remember  me  as  one 
who  would  gladly  die  to  serve  you.  If  for  the  moment  I 
have  offended  you,  try  to  pardon  me." 

They  have  reached  the  grassy  hollow  beyond  the  wood 
that  lets  the  house  be  seen.  Beyond  them  lies  a  bare  slope 
of  lawn,  and  then  the  terraces  and  the  drawing-room  win- 
dows. The  latter  are  all  ablaze.  The  twinkling  lights 
from  them  are  blown  here  and  there  across  the  grasses  by 
the  trembling  breeze.  Within  the  embrasure  of  one  win- 
dow two  figures  standing  side  by  side  can  be  distinctly 
seen. 

That  one  is  Lord  Branksmere,  the  other  Madame  von 
Thirsk,  becomes  apparent  to  Muriel  at  a  glance. 

Branksmere  is  gazing  idly  inward,  apparently  at  afreize 
upon  the  wall  opposite  ;  Madame  (whose  thoughts  are  busy 
upon  the  pale  beauty  of  the  hour),  outward  :  she  had  en- 
tered the  drawing-room  half  an  hour  ago,  hearing  Branks- 
mere was  there  alone,  but  had  found  him  unresponsive,  al- 
most ungenial.  At  this  moment  she  withdraws  her  fine 
eyes  from  the  starry  heavens  and  directs  them  keenly  at 
the  moonlit  lawn.  As  she  looks  a  touch  of  triumph  lights 
her  face.  Staines  then  had  managed  this  little  affair! 

"  Ah  !  "  she  says,  in  a  low  tone,  but  sharply  enough  to 
attract  attention.  Lord  Branksmere  turns  his  gaze  from 
the  freize  he  has  not  been  studying,  to  regard  her  ques- 
tioningly.  He  finds  her  glance  riveted  upon  the  world 
outside,  one  hand  upraised  as  though  in  horror. 

"What  is  it?"  demands  he,  listlessly. 

"Nothing."  She  makes  a  movement  as  though  to  pre- 
vent his  coining  to  the  window,  and  even  changes  her  posi- 
tion somewhat  ostentatiously  so  as  to  get  between  him  and 
it. 

"What  horrible  secret  does  the  night  hold,  that  you 
would  seek  to  hide  from  me  ? "  asks  he  with  a  smile. 
"  Let  me  share  it  with  you."  He  comes  nearer,  but  laying 
her  hand  upon  his  arm  she  still  holds  him  back. 

"Warnings,  I  have  learned,  are  thrown  away  upon  you," 
she  says  with  slow  meaning.  "  Why  then  should  you  seek 
to  make  yourself  uncomfortable." 

Something  in  her  tone  enlightens  him. 

"Stand  back,"  he  says, curtly.  And  as  she  still  affects  a 
determination  not  to  stir,  he  puts  her  away  with  one  hand. 
Poor  soul,  his  touch  even  thus  gained  is  sweet  to  her  ! 

Going  to  the  window,  Branksmere  gazes  out  into  the 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  251 

gloom  beyond,  that  can  hardly  be  called  darkness.  Night 
is  indeed  made  glorious  by  a  moonlight,  brilliant,  clear, 
and  calm.  Against  the  background  of  giant  firs — in  the 
very  centre  of  the  lawn — two  figures  stand  out  prominent. 

"  You  know  I  warned  you,"  whispers  Madame  in  his  ear, 
creeping  close  to  him  and  laying  a  hand  upon  his  arm. 

Something  in  his  face  unnerves  her' and  renders  her 
tone  tremulous.  He  shakes  her  off  as  though  she  were  a 
viper. 

"  Leave  me  ! "  he  says  between  his  teeth,  addressing 
her,  but  never  removing  his  gaze  from  the  two  forms  ad- 
vancing toward  him  across  the  dewy  lawn. 

For  a  moment  Madame  regards  him  strangely.  There 
is  no  rancor  in  her  glance,  there  is  nothing  uideed  but  a 
sudden  despair.  Is  this  to  be  the  end  of  it  all  ?  Has 
Staines,  her  own  common  sense,  lied  to  her?  Is  this 
woman,  this  soulless  creature  who  is  incapable  of  appre- 
ciating him,  the  possessor  of  his  heart.  Until  this  instant 
she  had  disbelieved  it,  but  now — with  that  expression  in 
his  eyes !  She  had  dreamed  strange  dreams  of  a  divorce 
— a  separation — a  time  when  she,  whose  whole  soul  is  in 
his  keeping,  might  have  stolen  into  his  heart.  But  swift  as 
a  flash  all  hope  has  died  within  her.  The  wages  for  which 
she  had  so  toiled  will  never  now  be  hers  !  And  yet,  great 
Heaven  !  how  she  has  loved  this  man  ;  how  she  has  ad- 
mired the  staunchness,  the  nobility  of  him  ;  the  strength 
that  has  enabled  him  to  risk  his  chance  of  happiness,  all 
for  the  sake  of  saving  the  honor  of  another!  A  sense  of 
age,  of  weakness,  oppresses  her  as  she  steals  slowly  from 
the  room. 

Branksmere  has  not  noticed  her  departure,  he  is  still 
gazing  from  the  window. 


CHAPTER  XXXIX. 

"Where  there  is  mystery,  it  is  generally  supposed  that  there  must  also  be 

evil." 


MURIEL  had  noticed   the  abrupt  going  of  Madame.     A 
curious  smile  full  of  bitterness  rises  to  her  lips. 

"A  precaution,"  she  mutters  to  herself,  "taken  too  late." 
Staines  has  perhaps  taken  more  notice  of  the  presence 
of  Lord  Branksmere. 


252  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"Shall  I  come  with  you  any  further?"  he  asks,  in  a 
careful  tone,  that  unfortunately  misrepresents  itself  to  her. 

"Why  not?"  she  answers,  coldly,  a  touch  of  reckless 
defiance  in  her  voice.  If  a  while  ago  it  had  occurred  to 
her  that  it  would  be  well  to  give  him  a  word  of  dismissal 
before  reaching  the  house,  now  she  decides  haughtily 
within  herself  that  that  word  she  will  not  speak.  Of  course, 
Staines  is  afraid  for  /ier,  but  she  will  show  him  that  she 
fears  no  man,  least  of  all  Branksmere  ! 

"  As  you  will,"  says  Staines,  with  a  rather  overdone  as- 
sumption of  alacrity. 

They  have  gained  the  balcony  steps  by  this  time.  Bridg- 
man  has  gone  round  the  house  to  enter  by  another  way, 
and  Muriel  mounts  the  steps  with  a  certain  buoyancy  in 
her  step,  a  tort  of  devilry  of  carelessness  that  surprises 
even  herself,  and  that  her  companion  is  far  from  sharing. 
This  touch  of  light  excitement  clings  to  her  until  she  finds 
herself  face  to  face  with  Branksmere,  who,  as  she  steps 
into  the  drawing-room,  comes  forward  as  if  to  receive  her. 

But  it  is  not  she  he  receives  after  all.  His  eyes,  black 
with  passion,  have  gone  past  her,  to  where  in  the  semi- 
darkness  the  shrinking  form  of  Staines  may  be  seen. 
There  is  something  about  the  gallant  captain's  face  at  this 
instant  that  suggests  the  idea  that  he  believes  his  last — or 
at  all  events  his  second  last — moment  has  come  ! 

"We  have  had  enough  of  this,  I  think,"  says  Branks- 
mere, in  a  dull,  terrible  tone,  striding  forward.  Muriel 
would  have  stopped  him,  but  he  puts  her  aside  as  though 
she  were  an  infant,  and  reaching  Staines,  seizes  him  by  the 
throat,  and  lifting  him  in  his  powerful  grasp,  drops  him 
right  over  the  balcony.  The  thud  of  his  body  can  be  dis- 
tinctly heard  as  it  gains  the  ground. 

It  is  all  the  work  of  an  instant.  It  seems  to  kill  the  venom 
in  Branksmere  and  to  do  him  good.  Whether  his  enemy 
is  lying  writhing  in  pain  with  a  broken  back,  or  has  es- 
caped unhurt,  is  of  equal  value  to  him,  apparently,  as  his 
face  is  almost  calm  when  he  closes  the  window  and  turns 
to  confront  his  wife.  If  he  had  expected  an  outburst  of 
sympathy  for  the  sufferer  on  her  part  he  is  mistaken. 

"  I  fear  you  have  hurt  him,"  she  says,  coldly. 

"  I  hope  so,"  deliberately. 

"  To  have  degraded  him  in  my  eyes  you  think  a  fine 
thing.  You  forget  that  at  the  same  time  you  were  degrad- 
ing me  in  his,  and  yours,  and  mine  !  So  be  it  ;  it  is  your 
own  doing,  remember.  And  after  all  there  was  scarcely 


LADY  BRANXSMERE.  253 

occasion  for  such  a  show  of  brutality."  Her  voice  is  per- 
fectly even,  there  is  no  vehemence,  not  even  the  slightest 
hint  at  passion  in  it.  "  I  met  him  by  accident  as  I  left  the 
Towers,  and  he  very  naturally  accompanied  me  here." 

"  I  should  fling  you  after  him  if  I  for  a  moment  doubted 
the  truth  of  that  statement,"  responds  he,  in  a  tone  that 
proves  the  demon  within  him,  if  scotched  for  the  time 
being,  still  rages. 

Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  superb  gesture,  full  of  scorn, 
sweeps  from  the  room. 

Three  hours  later,  worn  out  by  her  angry  pacing  up  and 
down  the  floor  of  the  empty  ball-room,  where  she  knew  she 
should  be  free  from  interruption,  and  where  she  could 
think  out  her  wild  thoughts  alone,  Lady  Branksmere  slowly 
mounts  the  stairs  that  lead  to  her  bedroom.  Most  of  the 
lamps  are  extinguished,  and  only  a  dull  gleam  here  and 
there  at  far  distances  serve  to  make  the  darkness  felt. 
Down  below,  somewhere  far  away,  a  clock  chimes  the  sec- 
ond hour  of  morning.  Through  the  windows  of  the  corri- 
dor along  which  she  is  passing  a  few  straggling  moon- 
beams find  their  way  ;  pausing  by  one  of  the  windows  Lady 
Branksmere  throws  up  the  sash,  and  leaning  out  into  the 
night,  gazes  downward  at  the  white  pavement  of  the  court- 
yard lying  below. 

That  sad  old  story  of  that  other  Lady  Branksmere  who, 
in  years  gone  by,  had  found  her  death  upon  those  cruel 
stones,  comes  back  to  her.  Poor  soul !  A  melancholy 
life,  a  melancholy  death,  were  hers.  Married  to  the  man 
she  hated,  forbidden  to  speak  to  or  to  see  the  man  she 
loved.  Reckoned  by  all  a  guilty  thing  because 

A  hot  flush  dyes  her  brow.  She  clenches  her  hand  and 
shrinks  involuntarily  backward,  as  though  to  hide  away 
from  her  very  self.  She  had  condemned  that  poor  dead 
dame.  Had  looked  upon  her  as  a  lost  creature — a  very 
Jezebel  ;  and  now  !  How  is  she — Muriel — so  much  better 
than  her  ?  To  what  words  had  she  listened  to-night  ?  She 
— a  wife ! 

A  shudder  passes  over  her.  In  this  vague  mysterious  hour 
when  all  the  world  seems  dead,  and  she  and  her  own  heart 
stand  here  alone,  what  excuse  dare  she  plead  that  judg- 
ment be  not  passed  upon  her  ?  A  cruel  fear  lays  siege  to 
her  soul  ;  a  horror  of  what  the  future  may  hold  for  her,  a 
sense  of  drifting  whither  she  would  not  go. 

All  at  once  the  dull  lamp  that  had    been  burning  at  the 


254  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

lower  end  of  the  corridor  goes  out,  expiring  with  a  melan- 
choly flicker  that  startles  and  unnerves  her.  Once  again 
the  vision  of  that  unhappy  woman  who  had  been  dashed  to 
pieces  upon  the  pavement  beneath  presents  itself.  An 
eerie  sensation  that  suggests  the  near  approach  of  some 
impending  doom  takes  possession  of  her  :  she  is  alone  in 
the  gloom  with  only  a  few  ghostly  moonbeams  to  betray 
the  darkness  and  the  unpleasant  knowledge  that  this  cor- 
ridor is  said  to  be  haunted.  With  an  effort  to  subdue  her 
foolish  weakness  she  is  about  to  proceed  on  her  way,  when 
a  sound  comes  to  her  from  the  Dowager's  apartments  be- 
yond that  freezes  the  blood  in  her  veins. 

It  is  the  same  awful  cry  that  she  had  heard  once  before. 
Along,  low,  creeping  ciy,  replete  with  anguish,  and  scarcely 
human.  Not  the  wail  of  an  old  woman.  Even  at  this  ter- 
rible moment  Lady  Branksrnere  wonders  inwardly  how  she 
could  ever  have  thought  it  had  fallen  from  the  Dowager's 
lips.  It  is  clear,  strong,  piercing  ;  but  unearthly  ! 

Her  breath  stops  short.  She  had  been  toying  with  a 
bracelet  on  her  way  up  the  stairs,  and  now  it  falls  from  her 
nerveless  grasp  and  rolls  along  the  polished  floor  with  a 
little  rasping  noise. 

To  her  heated  imagination  it  seems  as  though  this  rolling 
will  never  cease.  A  silence  as  terrible  as  the  cry  itself  had 
followed  upon  it  ;  as  suddenly  as  it  rose  it  had  died.  Had 
a  cloth  been  laid  upon  the  screaming  lips,  or  a  heavy  door 
closed  to  deaden  the  sound  ? 

Again  the  sacred  stillness  of  the  night  is  desecrated, 
again  an  appalling  sound  rings  through  the  corrider.  But 
now  the  wail  has  turned  to  shrieking  laughter,  to  a  mirth 
that  makes  the  blood  grow  cold,  and  compels  one's  very 
heart  to  stand  still.  Is  there  madness  in  it  ? 

Muriel,  half  wild  with  terror,  rushes  to  her  own  room, 
and  closing  the  door  with  trembling  fingers  that  will 
scarcely  obey  her  meaning,  locks  it  firmly.  Great 
Heaven  !  what  mystery  dwells  within  this  dreadful  house. 
Her  face  is  bloodless  ;  her  hands  cold  ;  she  is  shivering  in 
every  limb.  Must  she  dwell  forever,  then,  in  terror  ?  A 
longing  to  escape  gives  her  the  strength  to  walk  wildly  up 
and  down  her  room,  as  some  poor  animal  might  do  within 
its  detested  cage.  It  is  too  late  to  return  to  the  Towers  ; 
already  it  is  two  hours  after  midnight,  and  to  free  one's 
self  from  this  terrible  atmosphere  for  only  a  few  hours, 
of  what  avail  is  it  ?  But  to  get  away  forever — forever— 
forever ! 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  .       255 

She  is  still  trembling  with  excitement  ;  she  has  fallen 
into  a  chair,  and  her  hands  are  hanging  loosely  by  her  sides. 
Her  breath  is  coming  in  short  fitful  gasps.  Yes  ;  to  go 
forever.  To  leave  all  this,  and  the  anger,  and  the  impo- 
tent protesting  behind  her !  What  was  it  that  Staines  had 
said  ? 

She  grows  even  whiter,  and  leans  back  heavily  in  her 
chair.  Yes,  she  remembers  !  Never  had  his  wooing  been 
so  impassioned  even  in  the  old  days.  It  had  not  lain  so 
much  in  speech  as  in  voice  and  eyes  ;  and  yet— —  What 
is  it?  She  pushes  back  the  hair  from  her  hot  forehead, 
and  springing  to  her  feet,  gazes  at  herself  intently  in  the 
huge  mirror  let  into  the  wall  that  reaches  from  floor  to 
ceiling  :  the  white-set  face  !  but  where  is  the  love  in  it  that 
should  shine,  though  it  be  guiltily  ?  What  has  come  to 
her  ?  Has  she,  indeed,  lost  all  desire  foreverything  earthly 
or  heavenly  ?  Can  she  no  longer  love  or  hate  ?  Is  her 
soul  dead  within  her  ? 

' '  My  face  is  foul  with  weeping, 
And  on  my  eyelids  is  the  shadow  of  death. 
Mine  eye  also  is  dim  by  reason  of  sorrow." 

But  to  go  with  him  !  To  quit  this  cruel  life  for  one 
where —  She  shudders  violently  and  presses  her 

palms  together.  Yet  surely  no  other  life  could  be  more 
cruel  !  And  then  there  would  be  love.  That  he  loves  her 
seems  beyond  all  doubt.  She  would  no  longer  have  to  en- 
act the  role  of  the  neglected,  forsaken  wife,  the  woman  cast 
aside  and  abandoned.  She  lifts  her  hand  to  wipe  the 
moisture  from  her  brow  !  To  go — to  leave  it  all.  To 
wake  in  some  other  clime  free  from  the  insulting  chains 

that  so  long  have  galled  her  !  To  wake a  dishonored 

woman  !  A  false  wife  !  A  meretricious  thing  with  gar- 
ments defiled,  from  whom  all  other  women,  good  and 
happy,  will  forever  shrink  with  righteous  disdain.  Sweet 
Heaven  ;  NO  ! 

She  puts  up  her  hand  as  if  to  ward  from  her  some  intol- 
erable thought.  The  drops  rise  and  cling  to  her  forehead. 
Her  pxilse  deadens.  She  stoops  forward.  She  feels  that 
she  is  falling — falling ! 

Dropping  upon  her  knees,  she  clasps  her  forehead  close. 

"  '  A  new  and  contrite  heart,'  "  for  this  she  prays. 

And  with  prayer  comes  peace  and  a  desire  for  good. 
She  rises  presently  with  the  longing  for  repentance  strong 
upon  her  :  to  find  her  husband,  to  confess  all  to  him,  to  ask 


256      %  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

from  him  a  confession  in  return  (a  confession  she  swears 
to  herself  she  will  condone,  whatever  it  maybe,  if  given  to 
her  openly  and  honestly),  is  her  new-born  desire.  Life  has 
forever  lost  its  sweetness  for  her.  Hope  !  Bright  Vana- 
dis,  that  most  desirable  of  all  the  Goddesses  of  Olyrnpus, 
has  given  her  up  long  since  ;  but  still  some  poor  return 
may  be  hers. 

To  wait  for  the  morning  with  all  these  wild,  grievous 
thoughts  surging  within  her  seems  impossible.  She  must 
go  now.  If  asleep,  she  can  wake  him.  She  must  go. 

She  steals  to  the  door,  opens  it,  and  in  spite  of  her  fear 
creeps  along  it  toward  her  husband's  room.  Now,  as  she 
nears  the  hanging  curtains  that  cut  off  the  haunted  rooms 
inhabited  by  Madame  von  Thirsk  from  the  rest  of  the 
house,  she  trembles  visibly  and  pauses.  Can  she  pass 
them  ? 

Even  as  she  hesitates  the  heavy  curtain  is  swung  aside, 
and  into  the  moonlight,  that  now  has  grown  broad  and  full 
— and  straight  from  Madame's  apartments — emerge  the  fig- 
ures of  Thekla  von  Thirsk  and — Lord  Branksmere  ! 

Muriel,  putting  out  both  her  hands  behind  her,  steals 
backward,  and  coming  softly  against  a  wall,  leans  against 
it  thankfully,  and  with  the  faintness  of  death  upon  her, 
waits  for  what  may  come. 

Madame's  face  is  strangely  pale  and  care-worn.  She 
looks  as  one  who  has  just  undergone  a  heavy  trial.  Her 
eyes  are  still  wide  and  wet  with  the  traces  of  bitter  tears  just 
shed.  She  is  speaking,  and  the  words  are  falling  from  her 
hurriedly,  as  from  one  who  is  filled  with  grief. 

"The  past  is  over  and  done,"  she  is  saying,  "and  why 
should  I  now  be  betrayed  ?  I  have  your  oath,  Branksmere 
— your  oath — remember  that."  She  is  deeply  agitated. 

"  If  you  will  keep  me  to  it,"  replies  he,  moodily,  his  eyes 
fixed  upon  the  ground. 

"  I  do  hold  you."  Her  voice  has  grown  strong  again  ; 
"  it  is  but  a  small  thing  to  you,  perhaps,  but  to  me  it  means 
honor,  all !  Have  you  forgotten  everything,  that  you  thus 
speak  lightly  of  betrayal  ?  Does  it  not  concern  you  as 
much  as  me  ?  " 

"  As  much,  indeed."  His  voice  is  low,  and  as  he  speaks 
a  sigh  escapes  him. 

"Ah!  you  still  acknowledge  that.  The  love,  then,  that 
belonged  to  those  old  days  is  not  yet  slain  ?  That  is  well ! 
Why  should  the  work  of  years  be  undone,  to  gratify  the 
cold  fancy  of  an  unloving  girl !" 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  257 

An  inexplicable  change  darkens  Branksmere's  face. 

"  She  has  reason  to  be  cold,"  he  says,  with  a  sort  of  sub- 
dued passion.  "  This  secrecy  that  she  so  resents ;  this 
melancholy  tie  that  binds  us — you  and  me — all  tend  to 
render  her  unloving." 

"Again  you  waver,"  murmurs  Madame,  moving  closer 
to  him. 

"No." 

"  You  will  be  stanch  ? "  She  lays  her  hand  upon  his 
arm  and  her  voice  takes  a  low,  seductive  tone  ;  "you  will 
be  true.  It  means  life  to  me,  Branksrnere,  and  you  owe 
me  much.  You  have  sworn  to  me  already,  but  I  would 
have  you  say  again  that  you  will  never  be  false  to  your  old 
allegiance." 

"  1  shall  not  be  false." 

"  The  old  love,  then,  still  lives  ?" 

"It  lives — always." 

"Oh  !  Branksrnere,"  cries  Madame,  in  a  low  voice,  that 
to  the  silent  listener  seems  filled  with  passion. 

Light  and  swift  as  a  shadow  Muriel  moves  away  from 
them,  back  to  the  room  she  has  just  quitted.  All  the  soft 
penitence  is  gone  from  her  face.  Her  mouth  is  stern. 
Her  eyes  are  all  ablaze  with  a  fire  that  hate  has  lit.  She 
does  not  kneel  this  time.  No  prayer  rises  to  her  lips. 
See  flings  wide  the  casement  as  though  athirst  for  air,  and 
as  the  dawn  comes  slowly  .up,  and  the  first  cold  breath  of 
morn  salutes  her  brow,  her  final  resolve  is  formed. 


CHAPTER  XL. 

He  is  my  bane,  I  cannot  bare  him, 

One  heaven  and  earth  can  never  hold  us  both. 


"  IT'S  the  very  deuce  of  a  thing,"  says  Mr.  Daryl,  ruefully. 

"  Well,  it's  just  that,"  acquiesces  his  wife,  with  the  utmost 
agreeability.  "  But  why  she  can't  tug  on  with  that  poor 
Branksmere  is  a  puzzle  to  me." 

"  You  know  why  she  doesn't,"  puts  in  Dick,  with  a  frown. 
"  She  has  explained  it  to  you  clearly  enough,  and  you  know 
also  that  that  evening  he  was  here  with  her  he  failed  to  ex- 
plain anything." 


258  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

> 

"  Still  I  believe  there  is  some  mistake  somewhere.  There 
is  a  touch  of  strength  about  Branksmere's  face  that  pre- 
cludes the  idea  of  falseness." 

"Well,  however  it  goes,  it's  the  dickens  of  a  nuisance," 
says  Billy,  again,  running  his  fingers  with  vague  irritabil- 
ity through  his  hair.  It  is  close  on  eleven  o'clock,  and  the 
sweetness  and  light  that  may  be  derived  from  a  sound 
slumber  commend  themselves  to  him.  "  Something  ought 
to  be  done,  I  suppose,  eh  ? "  His  tone  is  deplorably  want- 
ing in  vigor.  There  is  even  a  suspicious  ring  in  it  that 
might  lead  the  hearers  to  suspect  him  of  being  only  ambi- 
tious of  doing  nothing  ! 

"  Certainly,  and  at  once,"  replies  Dick,  severely. 

"Oh!  not  at  once,"  remonstrates  Meg,  weakly.  "One 
should  think." 

"No,  certainly  not  at  once."  Billy  grasps  at  this  eagerly. 
"And  to  think  ;  to  think  hard  is  in  my  opinion  essential." 

"  I  don't  agree  with  you  :  riot  a  moment  should  be  lost," 
persists  Dick  the  implacable.  "  He  is  treating  her  bar- 
barously, and  she  is  our  sister.  If  we  do  not  stand  to  her, 
who  will  ?  You  are  the  eldest,  Billy.  If  I  were  you  I 
should  make  a  move." 

"  There  you  are  utterly  out  of  it,"  returns  Billy,  deject- 
edly. "  If  such  a  remarkable  event  could  occur  that  you 
should  become  me,  I  beg  to  assure  you  you  wouldn't  stir  a 
peg.  To  make  a  move  is  the  very  last  thing  in  the  world 
I  want  to  do,  unless  it  be  toward  bed.  You  may  think, 
my  good  boy,  that  it  is  a  simple  thing  to  walk  up  to  a  fel- 
low who  has  the  misfortune  to  be  one's  brother-in-law,  and 
who  up  to  this  has  seemed  to  you  to  be  a  very  decent  sort 

of  fellow,  and  tell  him  in  blank  verse  that  he  is  a . 

Yes,  yes,  my  dear  girl,  of  course !  one  should  never  go  to 
extremes  in  one's  language,  that  I  know :  and  after  all  I 
didn't  say  it,  did  I  ?" 

"  Well,  I  guess  you  did  what  you  could  for  it,"  says  Mrs. 
Billy. 

"After  all,  it  seems  a  pity  that  Muriel  married  poor 
George,"  murmurs  Angelica,  dreamily.  "  Perhaps  it  would 
have  all  turned  out  better  if  she  had  married  her  first  love, 
Captain  Staines." 

"  Oh  !  no  !  "  The  words  break  from  Mrs.  Billy's  lips  as 
if  against  her  will.  Her  voice  is  full  of  horror,  and  she 
puts  out  one  hand  impulsively,  as  though  to  ward  off  some 
danger.  Everyone  looks  a  little  surprised  ;  her  husband 
in  a  sleepy,  half-amused  fashion. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  259 

"Why,  what  has  that  blonde  Apollo  done  to  you  ?"  he 
asks,  lazily,  "  that  you  should  break  into  such  violent  lan- 
guage. Your  behavior  is  far  worse  than  mine  was — going 
to  be — a  few  moments  ago." 

Mrs.  Billy's  laugh  is  perfectly  natural  as  she  turns  to  him. 

"Don't  like  his  face,"  she  says  ;  "  I  hate  those  starved- 
looking  men.  One  never  can  be  sure,  of  course,  but  I 
don't  think  she  would  have  been  happy  with  him." 

"  Happier  than  with  a  man  who  has  so  grossly  insulted 
her,"  returns  Dick,  gloomily. 

"As  to  that,  Muriel  was  always  rather  fanciful.  We 
ourselves  used  to  find  her  a  little  difficult,"  puts  in  Peter. 
"  And  Branksmere  certainly  was  awfully  in  love  with 
her  when  they  were  married,  whatever  he  may  be  now. 
He  insisted  upon  making  the  most  splendid  settlements  " 
— turning  to  Mrs.  Daryl — "and  made  her  a  present  of 
^£20,000  upon  their  wedding-day,  so  that  she  might  feel 
herself  independent  of  him.  Of  course,  if  that  story  about 
Madame  von  Thirsk  is  true  he  is  the  greatest  scoundrel  I 
have  heard  of — but  is  it  ?  She  is  such  a  nice  little  woman," 
says  Peter,  sentimentally,  to  whom  all  nice  little  women 
are  dear. 

"  I'm  sure  I  don't  see  how  it  is  all  to  end  ? "  says  Mar- 
gery, despairingly.  "As  for  Madame,  though  I  think  she 
is  like  a  cat,  still  I  think  she  is,  in  some  ways,  a  good  soul, 
and  devoted  to  that  dreadful  old  mummy  up-stairs.  That 
is  Why  Branksmere  is  so  attached  to  her,  though  Muriel 
refuses  to  see  it." 

"  Things  grow  worse  between  them  every  day." 

"  And  that's  a  fact,"  says  Tommy  Paulyn,  sauntering  in 
from  the  shrubberies,  where  he  has  been  amusing  himself 
with  the  inevitable  cigarette,  and  a  pea-shooter  meant  for 
the  diversion  of  any  prowling  cat.  "  Do  I  give  it  the  cor- 
rect twang,  Mrs.  Billy  ? — to  see  those  two  glowering  at 
each  other  is  enough  to  upset  the  nerves  of  anyone  as 
delicate  as  I  am.  It's  a  mistake,  too,"  continues  Tommy, 
with  a  languishing  air.  "  It  gives  us,  the  outsiders,  a  dis- 
taste for  matrimony." 

"  I  don't  see  where  the  mistake  comes  in  there,"  says 
Angelica,  scornfully. 

"  Don't  you  ?  How  dense  you  grow,  Angelica.  Can't 
you  see  that  I,  as  a  Lord  of  the  Creation,  being  disheart- 
ened by  such  goings  on,  and  afraid  to  cast  myself  at  the 
feet  of — let  me  say,  for  example — you,  an  excellent  chance 
is  lost  to  the  girls  of  England  forever." 


260  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Pshaw  !  "  says  the  third  Miss  Daryl. 

"  By  all  means,  old  girl.  Anything  you  wish,"  responds 
Mr.  Paulyn,  amiably  ;  "your  remarks,  if  short,  are  always 
to  the  point.  I  didn't  quite  catch  the  last,  but  I  feel  it  was 
worthy  of  you.  No  affectation  about  your  style  ;  no  pre- 
tence at  an  unhealthy  elegance.  Indeed,  there  is  an  ab 
sence  of  starch  about  you  generally  that  is  very  refresh- 
ing." 

"  If  you  must  talk  so  much,  it  is  a  pity  you  can't  do  it  in 
decent  English." 

"  Do  you  mean  to  insinuate  that  my  English  is  //zdecent  ? 
Oh  !  fie,  Angelica  ;  you  hurt  me  very  much  ;  I,  who  have 
always  so  prided  myself  upon  my You  ask  my  opin- 
ion, Mrs.  Billy?  Oh  !  ah  !  yes,  to  be  sure.  It  is  exactly 
the  same  as  yours,  I  assure  you." 

"Tommy!  You  have  not  been  listening,"  declares  Mr. 
Daryl,  sternly.  "  Don't  mind  him,  Willie,"  to  his  wife. 

"I  give  you  my  word.     I  really,  you  know,  wouldn't  for 

anything "  begins  Tommy,  mumbling  hopelessly,  and 

squeezing  energetically  a  bunch  of  leaves  he  has  brought 
indoors  with  him. 

"  It  doesn't  matter  at  all.  The  thing  now  is  to  know  what 
is  to  be  done  with  Muriel.  I'm  afraid  she  imagines  a  good 
deal." 

"What  she  wants,"  declares  Mr.  Daryl,  with  the  air  of  a 
discoverer,  "  is  a  shock!  A  rattling  good  s/i0c&  /  She  is 
too  one-sided  an  observer,  too  narrow,  too  self-conscious  ; 
and  a  shock  of  some  sort  would  rouse  her  from  her  absurd 
fancies  and  bring  her  to  her  senses." 

"  A  shock,  they  say,  is  good  for  most  people,"  answers 
his  wife,  doubtfully  ;  "but  then  who  is  to  administer  it  ?  " 

"  Can  I  be  of  any  use  ?  "  asks  Mr.  Paulyn,  earnestly,  and, 
it  must  be  allowed,  with  the  very  purest  purpose — if  for 
this  time  only.  As  he  speaks  he  extends  his  arm  and  flings 
into  the  fire  (the  night  is  cold)  the  leaves  he  holds.  They 
are  laurel  leaves,  and  at  once  go  off  with  a  resounding  suc- 
cession of  sharp  bangs  that  would  have  put  a  small  artillery 
corps  to  shame.  As  if  with  one  consent  they  all  jump  ! 
Margery,  indeed,  gives  way  to  a  faint  shriek.  The  untimely 
interruption  has  occurred  at  a  most  unhappy  moment,  and 
rouses  angry  feelings  in  their  breasts.  Indeed,  I  need 
hardly  say  that  everyone  is  extremely  indignant. 

"  Is  that  what  you  call  a  shock  ?  If  you  can't  help  us, 
Thomas,  in  our  misery,  at  least  have  the  goodness  to  refrain 
from  your  eternal  practical  jokes,"  says  Margery,  sternly. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  261 

Mr.  Daryl,  whom  time  and  circumstance  should  have 
sobered,  has,  I  regret  to  say,  subsided  into  uncontrollable 
laughter  and  an  easy-chair  behind  a  convenient  screen.  He 
is,  therefore,  unequal  to  the  occasion. 

"  It  wasn't  a  joke,"  protests  the  Honorable  Tommy.  "At 
least  not  on  my  part.  Who'd  have  thought  a  few  innocent- 
looking,  green,  very  green,  leaves,  would  have  made  such 
a  row  ? " 

Here  another  of  them  that  had  up  to  this  escaped  the 
blaze  is  now  caught  by  it  and  explodes  noisily. 

"Now,  Tommy,  there  !  You're  at  it  again.  If  nobody 
else  speaks  to  you  about  it  I  will,"  cries  Angelica,  wrath  - 
fully,  who  is  plainly  under  the  impression  that  up  to  this 
everyone  else  has  been  absurdly  mild  about  it. 

"  Do  you  mean  to  say  that  was  my  fault  ?  "  demands 
Tommy,  in  a  highly  indignant  tone.  "  Why  didn't  it  go  off 
at  first,  I'd  like  to  know,  instead  of  meanly  dodging  about 
so  as  to  get  me  into  deeper  disgrace  ?  You  saw  it  all,  Mrs. 
Billy  " — appealing  to  her  hopefully,  as  most  people  would 
— "  and  you  will  admit  that  that  last  confounded  thing  went 
off  by  itself.  Eh  !  now.  Didn't  it  ?  " 

But  Mrs.  Billy  has  disappeared  behind  her  handker- 
chief. 

"  There  now,  you've  made  her  cry.  I  hope  you  are  sat- 
isfied now !  "  says  Angelica,  vindictively.  "You  have 
simply  frightened  her  out  of  her  life.  And  at  such  a  time, 
too,"  regarding  him  reproachfully,  "  to  play  jokes!  " 

. "  It  wasn't<\.  joke,  I  tell  you  !  "  almost  roars  the  dismayed 
Tommy.  "  It's  no  joke  at  all !  And  I  never  knew  those 
vile  leaves  were  surcharged  with  gunpowder,  or  I  wouldn't 
have  touched  'em.  I  say,  Mrs.  Billy,  don't  go  on  like  that, 
you  know.  Eh  ?  Eh  ?  I'm  real  sorry,  you  know  ?" 

A  little  gasp  escapes  Mrs.  Billy  ;  she  lets  the  handker- 
chief fall  and  gives  way  to  wild  merriment. 

"It  was  so  opportune,  so  deliciously  apropos"  she  ex- 
claims. "  But  one  shouldn't  laugh  when  one  has  so  seri- 
ous a  subject  on  hand,"  growing  grave  again.  "  Poor 
Muriel  !  I  am  so  grieved  about  her." 

"It  all  comes  of  marrying  a  man  without  loving  him," 
says  Margery. 

"  And  I  don't  believe  she  cared  a  brass  farthing  for 
Branksmere,"  supplements  Peter. 

"Well,"  declares  Mr.  Daryl,  who  has  deserted  the  arm- 
chair and 'is  once  again  as  solemn  as  anyone  can  desire  and 
considerably  more  drowsy.  "If  people  will  commit  that 


262  LADY  BRANKSMERE.. 

sort  of  moral  suicide  they  must  expect  a  disastrous  result. 
What  will  you  have  ? "  He  shrugs  his  shoulders  as  though 
in  contempt  of  that  sort  of  people. 

"A  brandy  and  soda,  thanks,"  says  Mr.  Paulyn,  abstract- 
edly, who  has  mistaken  the  meaning  of  the  last  remark 
and  the  -tone  of  the  conversation  generally.  Everyone 
laughs  except  Mr.  Daryl,  who  remains  preternaturally 
grave,  and  regards  the  Honorable  Tommy  with  a  counte- 
nance expressive  of  the  deepest  admiration. 

"  Thomas,  thou  hast  said  it !  "  he  remarks,  at  last.  "  This 
Parliament,"  addressing  his  wife,  "is  prorogued  indefi- 
nitely. May  the  gods  grant  our  next  meeting  may  be  a 
merrier  one.  Come  with  me,  '  true  Thomas,'  to  the  bil- 
liard-room, where  probably  that  gracious  mixture  of  which 
you  spoke  is  awaiting  us.  Peter — Dick,  be  in  attendance." 

They  all  disappear.  The  boys  with  Billy,  Angelica  to 
her  bed.  Margery,  going  up  to  Mrs.  Billy,  lays  her  hands 
upon  her  shoulders. 

"What  do  you  know  of  Captain  Staines  ?  "  she  asks, 
slowly. 

"  Not  much,"  returns  Mrs.  Daryl,  returning  her  gaze  in 
full.  "  And  yet  a  great  deal." 

"  You  have  met  him  before  ?  In  some  other  part  of 
your  life  ?  Ah  !  I  could  see  it.  You  know  of — 

"  Nothing  to  his  good  !  "  calmly.  "  Yes,  I  knew  him — 
in  the  old  days." 

"You — you  loved  him  ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  with  healthy  emphasis. 

"  He  loved  you  ? " 

Mrs:  Billy  smiles. 

"  My  dear  girl.  You,  who  know  the  man,  to  ask  such  a 
question  !  Could  he  love  anything  beyond  himself  and 
his  own  interests  ? " 

"See  here,"  says  Margery,  growing  pale,  but  not  remov- 
ing her  earnest  gaze  from  the  face  before  her,  nor  her  grasp 
from  her  shoulders.  "You  have  kept  secret  your  knowl- 
edge of  him  all  this  time.  Why  ?  " 

"  Secret  ?  Does  one  mention  every  casual  acquaint- 
ance? " 

"  He  was  no  casual  acquaintance.  Some  motive  kept 
you  silent.  Speak,  Willie  !  Tell  me  what  you  know  of 
him." 

"Do  you,  then,  suspect  me  of  an  intrigue  with  him  ?" 
asks  the  other,  gravely. 

"That  question  is  unworthy  of  you  !    No.     I  ask  for  '' — 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  263 

she  draws  her  breath  sharply,  and  her  lips  grow  white 

— "  Muriel's  sake  !  If  you  know  anything  that  might 

The  idea  is  cruel,  mean,  but  I  would  do  anything  to 
break  the  bond  of  affected  friendship  that  exists  between 
them.  Willie,  if  you  know  anything  to  his  disadvantage,  say 
it.  Do  not  hesitate  :  save  her  at  all  risks  !  What  is  he  to 
us  that  you  should  refrain  from  speech  that  may  help  to 
clear  her  eyes.  Yesterday  I  met  them  again,  she  and  that 
bad  man,  down  in  that  little  dell  we  used  to  call  '  Love's 
Retreat,'  because  he  and  she  used  to  walk  there  every  day 
when  we  thought  she  meant  to  marry  him.  Oh,  if  one  only 
knew  of  something  that  would  turn  her  heart  against  him." 

"I  don't  believe  she  in  the  least  cares  for  him,"  says  Mrs. 
Daryl,  looking  at  the  ground. 

"  And  yet " 

"And  yet  to  escape  her  present  life  she  may  commit  any 
folly.  I  understand  her  as  well  as  you  do.  You  would 
hear  what  I  know  of  Staines  ?  Hear  it,  then.  He  was 
obliged  to  leave  Brussels  while  I  was  there  in  rather  aa  un- 
comfortable hurry.  They  had  thrown  him  out  of  the  club 
window  the  night  before  because  of  his  being  a  little  too 
clever  about  his  cards." 

"  That  is  very  bad,"  says  Margery.  "  But  there  is  some- 
thing more.  All  that  is  outside  your  own  experience  of 
him.  And  I  would  have  that." 

"  Would  you  ?  " 

Mrs.  Billy  regards  her  intently. 

"  It  is,  as  I  told  you,  a  trivial  affair — an  every-day  occur- 
rence, probably,"  with  a  rather  bitter  intonation,  "  hardlv 
worth  so  much  reticence  on  my  part.  As«you  are  so  per- 
sistent, listen,  then.  Once  Captain  Staines  did  me  the 
honor  to  ask  me  to  run  away  with  him.  To  give  up 
name  and  fame  for  him  !  To  accept  shame  for  him  !  I  was 
only  a  poor  dependent  then,  to  whom  an  insult  might 
safely  be  offered.  The  General  and  his  money  were  not 
thought  of.  It  was  really  being  good-natured  to  ask  a 
poor,  overworked,  tired,  miserable  little  girl  to  leave  her 

life  of  slavery  for Pshaw  !  "  cries  Mrs.  Billy,  flinging 

up  her  head.  "  Why  should  I  at  this  hour  feel  so  keenly 
the  treatment  of  a  man  so  utterly  base,  so  unworthy  of  any 
thought." 

"  My  poor  heart !"  says  Margery,  with  deepest  commis- 
eration and  self-reproach.  "I  should  not  have  pressed  the 
question."  She  lifts  Mrs.  Daryl's  hands  and  kisses  them 
softly  one  after  the  other.  Then,  "Does  Billy  know  ?" 


264  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  How  could  I  tell  him  ?  No.  A  thousand  times,  no  ! 
What  a  disgrace  :  a  horror.  It  was  such  a  shameful  thing," 
cries  Mrs.  Billy,  and  then  all  at  once  her  self-possession  de- 
serts her,  and  she  bursts  into  a  storm  of  tears.  "  Oh  !  that 
I  could  requite  that  man,"  she  whispers  sobbingly  through 
her  set  teeth,  "  that  I  could  find  myself  once  face  to  face 
with  him  with  the  necessity  to  speak  the  truth  full  upon 
me,  and  the  knowledge  that  my  betrayal  would  be  his 
ruin." 

Who  would  have  thought  all  this  passion  was  in  the 
debonnaire  little  creature  now  encircled  by  Margery's  arms. 
Margery,  to  whom  she  clings  because  some  innate  knowl- 
edge satisfies  her  that  the  girl  on  just  such  another  occa- 
sion would  feel  as  she  does — just  so  true  a  friend,  just  so 
true  an  enemy — just  as  revengeful. 

Her  teai'S  are  dried  as  quickly  as  they  fell.  She  shakes 
back  her  pretty  hair  and  looks  up  at  Margery.  A  heavy 
sigh  escapes  her. 

"  There  !  I'm  glad  I've  told  someone,"  she  says,  "  though 
I  just  wish  it  had  been  Billy,  not  you.  However,  I  shall 
tell  him  some  day,  when  Staines  is  well  out  of  the  way. 
That  will  be  soon." 

Margery  shudders — some  inward  fear  renders  her  for  the 
moment  cold. 

"  No,  my  dear,  nothing  of  that  sort.  Not  while  I'm  here. 
I'll  prevent  it  all  I  can,"  says  Mrs.  Billy.  "  Don't  make 
yourself  uncomfortable  before  you  must." 

"  If  Muriel  only  knew — 

"  She  shall  know  all  in  good  time.  I  shall  so  far  sacri- 
fice myself,  and  at  the  same  time  satisfy  my  honor.  And 
now  to  bed.  Keep  my  secret,  Meg,  until — 

"  Forever,"  says  Meg. 

Half  an  hour  later,  Mr.  Daryl,  having  effected  his  escape 
from  the  other  occupants  of  the  billiard-room,  enters  his 
own  apartment  to  find  his  wife  awaiting  him,  standing  by 
the  window.  As  she  turns  to  receive  him  there  is  no  trace 
of  her  late  emotion  about  her.  Her  face  is  as  bright  as 
ever,  the  customary  smile  with  which  she  always  greets 
him  as  sweet. 

"  Life  is  fatiguing,"  says  Mr.  Daryl,  sinking  with  a  sleepy 
sigli  into  the  nearest  lounging  chair,  "  especially  the  part 
of  it  that  has  to  do  with  one's  sisters.  Muriel  will  turn  me 
gray  even  before  you  do,  and  Margery  is  nearly  as  bad. 
She  turns  up  her  nose  at  every  fellow  she  meets  ;  and  as 
for  Bellew,  she  is  playing  old  Harry  with  him." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  265 

"I  could  tell  you  something  about  him,"  returns  his  wife, 
mysteriously.  "  But  I  can't  ;  you'd  be  sure  to  tell  it  again, 
and No,  I  can't  indeed.  I've  promised." 

"  Oh,  go  on  !  "  says  Mr.  Daryl,  with  a  criminal  disregard 
for  the  sacredness  of  one's  word. 

"Well,"  relenting,  eagerly  relenting,  "you  are  sure  you 
will " 

"  Positive." 

"  Never  ? " 

"  Never ! " 

"  Then  I  must  tell  you  that  last  night,  as  I  came  suddenly 
round  the  large  myrtle  in  the  corner  of  the  garden,  I  found 
Margery  there  with  Bellew,  and  he  had  his  arm  round  her 
waist,  and  she  didn't  seem  in  the  least  annoyed.  She 
seemed,  indeed,  rather — er — comfortable,  if  anything.  She 
made  me  promise  not  to  mention  it,  however,  and  I.  did, 
faithfully." 

"  So  you  did — faithfully  !  " 

"  Well,  don't  you  think  that  means  something  ?  " 

"  No,  I  don't.  I  have  long  ceased  to  place  any  faith  in 
such  paltry  evidence  as  that.  To  my  certain  knowledge 
Curzon  has  had  his  arm  round  her  waist  off  and  on  for  the 
last  two  years  without  the  faintest  result.  For  my  own 
part,  I  begin  to  think  poorly  of  Bellew.  If  /were  to  have 
my  arm  round  a  girl's  waist  for  the  five-hundredth  part  of 
that  time  I  should " 

"  Billy  !  I  wonder  you  aren't  ashamed  to  speak  to  me  in 
that  way." 

"  W/iy,  my  dear  ?  Would  you  prefer  my  addressing  that 
remark  to  somebody  else  ?  I  can't  remember  that  in  the 
old  days  you  saw  any  very  great  harm  in  having  my  arm 
round  your " 

"We  were  talking  of  Margery,"  interrupts  she,  severely. 
"Let  us  keep  to  some  respectable  subject." 

"  By  all  means.  I  should  hate  to  wander  into  the  paths 
of  vice.  As  to  Margery,  perhaps  she  means  to  marry 
Tommy." 

"Tommy!  Nonsense!  Who  would  marry  Tommy? 
He  is  just  one  of  the  nicest  people  I  know,  but  as  to  mar- 
riage !  why,  he  isn't  in  it  at  all.  I  could  almost  find  it  in 
my  heart  to  love  him  ;  but  to  go  to  the  altar  with  him, 
that  is  a  different  thing." 

"  Mrs.  Daryl,  permit  me  to  say  that  I  object  to  that 
speech,"  puts  in  Billy,  in  a  tone  descriptive  of  marital 
sternness  struggling  with  sleep. 


266  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"I  am  alluding  to  Margery,"  vaguely.  "The  idea  of 
your  thinking  she  would  accept  Tommy.  Who  would 
marry  such  an  inconsequent  person  ?  I  know  /wouldn't," 

"Couldn't!"  murmurs  Mr.  Daryl,  drowsily.  He  has 
managed  by  this  time  to  get  out  of  his  coat,  no  more,  and 
is  now  plainly  on  the  verge  of  a  refreshing  slumber.  A 
gentle  somnolence  has  caught  him.  To  even  a  careless 
observer  it  might  occur  that  he  has  made  up  his  mind  to 
spend  the  remainder  of  the  night  in  the  arm-chair,  his  shirt, 
waistcoat,  and — the  rest  of  it.  "  Bigamy  is  not  tolerated 
in  this  slow  old  country." 

"A  good  riling,  too,"  declares  Mrs.  Billy,  with  warmth. 
"  What  is  your  mind  running  on  now  ?  A  harem  ?  " 

"  Oh,  no,  my  love  !  Oh,  fie  !  "  breathes  Mr.  Daryl,  with 
a  gleam  of  consciousness.  There  is,  however,  a  frivolity 
about  his  horror  that  strikes  upon  his  wife's  ear. 

"  There  are  certain  failings  about  you,  Billy,  that  ought 
to  be  corrected,"  she  is  beginning  with  emphasis,  when  a 
sound  comes  to  her  that  puts  to  flight  all  sensations  save 
that  of  wrath.  It  is  a  mild,  harmonious  snore  that  breaks 
from  Mr.  Daryl's  Roman  nose,  with  an  honest  heartiness 
that  admits  of  no  misconception. 

"  I  do  believe  you  are  asleep  !  "  cries  his  wife,  with  ac- 
centuated indignation.  She  draws  closer  to  him  to  make 
sure  of  the  hateful  fact,  and  as  she  does  so  a  ready  venge- 
ance holds  out  its  arms  to  her.  Billy's  barber  had  inad- 
vertently forgotten  to  clip  off  one  small  lock  just  behind 
his  ear.  This  had  been  to  Billy's  wife  a  sore  grievance  for 
a  week  past  ;  now  it  is  a  boon  !  She  seizes  upon  it,  she 
draws  it  briskly  upward.  With  a  wild  shriek  Mr.  Darvl 
is  brought  back  to  every-day  life,  and  beats  a  retreat  to  his 
dressinsf-room. 


CHAPTER  XLI. 

"  Where  no  hope  is  left,  is  left  no  fear." 

Alas !     I  lose  myself, 
'Tis  pathless,  dark,  and  barren  all  to  me." 

MURIEL'S  fatal  resolution  once  formed,  she  hastens  the 
completion  of  it.  With  a  soul  full  of  returning  grace  she 
had  re-entered  the  corridor  that  night  ;  with  a  soul  void 
of  all  belief  and  hope  she  left  it.  When  next  Staines  met 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  267 

her — and  she  actually  laid  plain  the  way  for  him — she  re- 
ceived his  half-veiled  aspirations  in  so  friendly  a  spirit 
that  he  was  emboldened  to  place  before  her  the  plans  he 
had  for  so  long  a  time  framed.  She  acquiesced  in  all  of 
them  :  but  so  coldly,  so  indifferently,  that  he  was  both 
puzzled  and  piqued  by  her  manner. 

To  him,  departure  from  this  part  of  the  world  is  impera- 
tive :  steeped  to  his  very  eyes  in  debt,  both  here  and  in 
town,  nothing  is  left  him  but  an  immediate  and  secret  dis- 
appearance from  the  land  of  his"  duns.  To  live  abroad  on 
that  thousand  a  year  so  considerately  bestowed  upon  Lady 
Branksmere  by  her  husband,  is  the  little  game  that  for 
some  time  has  presented  itself  to  him  as  being  worthy  of 
notice.  The  thought  of  leaving  England  with  Lady  Branks- 
mere (who  is  the  most  desirable  woman  in  the  world  in  his 
eyes),  and  this  sum,  seems  good  in  his  eyes,  and  her  yield- 
ing, however  coldly  accorded,  a  success. 

It  is  a  week  later,  and  a  cold,  dull  evening,  rain-washed 
and  dreary.  "A  common  grayness  silvers  everything." 
No  sight  of  moon  is  possible,  and  through  all  the  air  there 
is  a  threatening  of  thunder.  The  clouds  hang  low,  and  out 
of  them  the  mountains  loom,  gloomy  and  grand.  Rising 
through  the  sullen  mist  their  peaks  rise  upward  like 
spires,  as  if  seeking  for  freedom.  Between  them  the  sky 
shines  red  as  fire.  An  appalling  fire  !  Weird  and  horri- 
ble, that  clings  to  one's  memory  as  though  it  were  a  part 
of  Dante's  Inferno. 

And  now  the  rain  comes  tumbling  down  :  it  descends  in 
torrents  ;  the  whole  face  of  the  earth  is  made  green  by  it. 

"  The  dykes  are  filled,  and  with  a  roaring  sound, 
The  rising  rivers  float  the  nether  ground." 

Hardly  heeding  the  extraordinary  blackness  of  the 
growing  night,  Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  travelling  cloak 
thrown  across  her  arm,  turns  the  handle  of  her  husband's 
private  room  and  enters  it,  to  find  him  seated  at  a  table  at 
the  other  end. 

"  It  is  a  mistake  to  waste  words  in  explanation,"  she 
says.  "  Hear  me  once  for  all.  I  leave  this  house  to-night, 
forever." 

"Ah!"  says  Branksmere.  He  rises  to  his  feet  and 
pushes  his  papers  slowly  from  him.  Just  so  much  time  it 
'takes  him  to  recover  himself.  "And  with  whom?"  he 
asks,  looking  directly  at  her.  His  tone  is  calm. 


268  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Captain  Staines,"  returns  she,  as  calmly.  If  she  had 
expected  to  triumph  in  his  burst  of  rage  on  hearing  this 
answer  she  is  disappointed.  Branksmere's  face  remains 
impassive. 

"  May  I  ask  the  reason  of  this  sudden  determination  ?  " 
he  asks,  presently. 

"  I  think  " — coldly — "  you  hardly  need.  I  have  no  time 
to  waste." 

"  In  such  mad  haste  to  be  gone  ?  Even  so,  I  must  press 
you  for  an  answer,  if  only  that  I  may  be  able  to  give  it  to 
my  questioners  hereafter." 

"Say  that  the  atmosphere  of  the  place  proved  too  much 
for  me.  I  have  no  appetite  for  the  mysterious,  and  the 
sounds  that  reach  one's  ear  at  midnight  in  this  house  are 
far  from  reassuring."  She  looks  at  him  keenly  as  she  fires 
this  shaft,  but  if  a  change  passes  over  his  face  it  is  so  fleet- 
ing that  she  scarcely  catches  it.  "  Say  I  am  unreasonable 
— fanciful,  if  you  will — anything"  slowly,  "but  the  truth  ! 
That  is  too  shameful  !  Say — I  don't  care  what  you  say," 
she  ends  abruptly. 

"  I  can  readily  believe  it.  A  woman  bent  on  taking  such 
a  step  as  yours  would  naturally  be  indifferent  to  public 
opinion.  And  so — this  is  to  be  the  end  of  it  ?  " 

"  I  hope  so.     So  far  as  you  and  I  are  concerned." 

"Your  chief  desire  is  to  escape  from  me  ?" 

"  And— her  !  " 

"  Pshaw !  let  us  keep  to  sense.  Your  old  affection  for 
this  man  has  induced  you  to  leave  me  ?  I  would  at  least 
hear  you  say  so." 

"  That  you  might  feel  your  own  conscience  the  lighter  ? 
Cease  from  taunts,  Branksmere,  and  from  hypocrisy,  too. 
You  know  you  will  be  as  glad  to  be  rid  of  me  as  I  shall  be 
to  know  that  I  have  looked  my  last  on  you  !"  The  wild 
bitterness  of  her  tone  renders  him  silent.  "A  truce  to 
passion,"  she  cries  presently,  with  a  great,  impatience — "  I 
leave  you  because  life  here  is  no  longer  bearable." 

"  You  leave  me — to  join  your  lover." 

"  Is  that  BO?"  A  slow  smile  curls  her  lip.  "If  it  will 
make  you  any  the  happier,  leave  it  so." 

"If  that  were  not  the  case  surely  matters  might  have 
been  more  respectably  arranged,"  returns  he,  with  a  shrug. 
"  Did  it  never  suggest  itself  to  you  that  you  might  have 
separated  yourself  from  me  in  a  more  decent  fashion  ? 
You  might  have  gone  alone." 

"  It  is  too  late  now  for  suggestions."     Her  tone  is  dull, 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  269 

and  in  a  weary  way  she  taps  the  ends  of  her  taper  fingers 
against  the  table  near  her.  "  I  have  given  him  my  prom- 
ise." 

"  Once  you' made  me  a  promise  !  "  He  pauses  here,  but 
her  tired  face  showing  no  signs  of  relenting,  he  refuses  to 
continue  his  subject.  "Did  it  never  strike  you  that  I 
might  prevent  this  rnad  act  of  yours  ? " 

"And  serve  me  as  that  ancient  dame  of  your  house  was 
served,  who  died  rather  than  live  a  prisoner  ?  Well,"  witli 
a  scornful  glance,  "  even  though  you  should  treat  me  so,  I 
should  not  die  :  Do  not  " — with  a  little  contemptuous 
laugh — "hope  for  that.  I  should  only  learn  to  wait,  and 
then  all  things  would  come  to  me.  But  I  am  safe  from 
you.  To  seek  to  detain  me  is  the  last  thing  that  would 
enter  into  your  head." 

"The  very  last.     You  speak  truly  there." 

"At  last  you  acknowledge  something.  Why  not  acknowl- 
edge all  ? "  asks  she,  lifting  to  his  a  face  that  is  passion  pale. 
"  Your  tendresse  for  Madame — all,"" 

"  I  almost  wish  I  could.  Then,  at  least,  there  might  be 
a  chance  of  gaining  absolution  ;  but  as  it  stands,  you  see," 
coldly,  "  there  is  nothing  to  confess." 

"You  lie  to  the  last,"  she  says.  "  And  yet,  even  to  gain 
your  wife,  you  refused  to  let  her  go." 

"  That  would  not  have  gained  me  my  wife.  And  yet " 

He  looks  at  her  strangely,  with  a  face  grown  suddenly  white. 
"If  I  were  now  to  prove  false  to  my  friendship  and  grati- 
tude to  my  grandmother's  faithful  friend — 

"  The  time  is  past  for  all  that,"  interrupts  she,  steadily. 
"  You  would  now  do  for  the  sake  of  your  own  good  name 
what  you  would  not  do  for  me.  I  thank  you  ;  but  I  will 
not  accept  the  sacrifice.  It  is,"  bitterly,  "too  great." 

"What  charge  do  you  bring  against  me  ?" 

"  Many  and  many  a  one." 

"  And  yet  I  hold  myself  blameless." 

"  Have  a  care,  Branksmere  !  The  world  may  be  cheated 
by  you,  but  I  cannot." 

"  You  give  the  world  too  much  credit,  it  seems  to  me. 
You  pay  it  too  rich  a  compliment.  Its  innocence  is  hardly 
to  be  relied  upon.  You  think  yourself  far  cleverer  than  it, 
yet  the  world,  you  should  remember,  has  a  thousand  eyes 
— you  but  two.  Yet  it  has  not  condemned  me." 

"  It  is  my  privilege  as  a  wife,"  says  she,  slowly,  "  to  know 
you  more  intimately  than  most." 

"  A  wife  !     I  have  no  wife  ! "     There  is  a  world  of  con- 


270  LADY  BRAXKSME'RE. 

temptuous  anger  in  his  voice.  His  eyes  flash  ;  for  the  mo- 
ment he  looks  as  though  he  could  willingly  annihilate  her. 
"  My  accusation  ! "  he  demands  in  a  tone  that,admits  of  no 
refusal. 

"  That  woman"  cries  she,  throwing  wide  her  arms,  and 
drawing  up  her  beautiful  figure  to  its  full  height.  "  Do 
you  deem  me  a  fool,  or  blind.  She  is  your  friend,  not  I. 
She  has  rooms  to  which  I  have  no  access — / — in  my  own 
house  !  but  where  you  are  made  welcome." 

"  If  you  must  have  an  answer  again  to  that,  I  swear  to 
you  I  never  saw  her  rooms  in  my  life." 

"You  swear  that !"  With  her  eyes  still  fixed  on  his,  she 
recoils  from  him  a  step  or  two,  as  if  in  abhorrence.  "  You 
swear  it  !  "  she  says. 

"From  my  soul  I  do.  Nay,  hear  me.  That  night — you 
saw  me  in  the  corridor  with — her — and " 

"  How  do  you  know  that  ? " 

"  By  this."  Opening  a  drawer,  he  holds  out  to  her  the 
bracelet  she  had  dropped  there  when  her  terror  at  that  un- 
earthly scream  had  numbed  her  nerves.  "You  accuse  me 
of  the  worst  ;  but  if  you  had  only  known  why — 

"  The  time  is  over  for  explanations,"  exclaims  she,  hastily, 
waving  aside  his  words  by  a  gesture  of  the  hand. 

Silence  falls  between  them  after  this — a  lengthened  si- 
lence, broken  at  last  by  him. 

"When  do  you  go  ?"  asks  he,  abruptly. 

"Now." 

"  Staines  is  in  waiting  !  " 

"  Yes." 

"  I  wonder  you  aren't  afraid  of  my  murdering  him,"  says 
he,  casually,  as  it  were,  glancing  at  her  with  a  half-indif- 
ferent air. 

"Pas  si  bete"  returns  she,  with  an  insolent  lifting  of  her 
shoulders.  "You  know  your  own  good  better  than  that." 

"You  have  probably  made  others  aware  of  this  move  ?" 
As  Branksmere  asks  this  question  he  regards  her  keenly. 

"No.     You  alone  know  of  it." 

"  It  was  extremely  kind  of  you  to  give  me  such  timely 
warning.  It  takes  away  a  good  deal  from  the  awkward- 
ness of  a  vulgar  discovery.  I  am  sincerely  obliged  to  you," 
he  says.  "  And  now  one  other  word  before  we  part.  Do 
you  think  you  will  be  happy  with  this — Staines  ?  "  He  asks 
this  question  in  his  coldest  and  most  sneering  manner,  as 
though  propounding  an  ordinary  question. 

"  I  don't  know.     Is  there  such  a  thing  as  happiness  ?  " 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  271 

asks  she  in  turn,  lifting  to  his  her  great  sombre,  mournful 
eyes.  "  At  least  he  loves  me.  I  shall  have  love — the  one 
thing  hitherto  denied  me." 

A  curious  gleam  comes  into  Branksmere's  eyes.  For  a 
moment  he  looks  as  though  some  impassioned  word  must 
pass  his  lips,  but  as  suddenly  as  the  longing  came  it  went. 
He  subdues  himself,  and  as  if  struck  by  the  absurdity  of 
the  impulse  he  has  killed,  he  breaks  into  a  low,  discordant 
laugh — a  laugh  short-lived,  but  one  so  strange,  that  she, 
half  startled,  looks  at  him. 

"  You  are  merry,  sir,"  she  says,  gravely. 

"  Why  should  I  not  be  ?  If  nothing  else,  at  least  grant 
me  a  sense  of  humor.  Surely  the  situation  is  full  of  it ! 
It  is  perhaps  the  first  time  on  record  that  Madame  has  had 
the  courtesy  to  inform  Monsieur  of  her  intention  to  dis- 
honor him." 

"  You  are  wrong,"  indifferently.  "  I  know  of  at  least 
one  similar  case.  I  knew  the  woman  who  so  acted." 

"  You  knew  her  ?"  There  is  a  cruelty  in  the  emphasis 
used.  Muriel's  lips  whiten. 

"  She  passed  out  of  my  old  life,"  she  answers,  coldly. 

"And  into  your  new  one  !  In  all  human  probability 
you  will  meet  her  again  shortly.  I  congratulate  you  on 
your  friends,"  with  a  low  bow. 

"And  I,  you  on  yours,"  meaningly. 

"  This  last  friend,  to  whom  we  are  indebted  for  the  even- 
ing's conversation.  You  are  aware,  perhaps,  that  he  is 
penniless  ? " 

"  I  haven't  heard  it,"  listlessly.  "  But  even  if  it  is  true 
it  will  not  distress  me.  I  would  welcome  poverty — any- 
thing— to  escape  the  life  I  am  now  leading." 

"You  purpose  leading  another  where  money  will  be  no 
object,  or  at  least  where  very  little  will  suffice  ?  May  I 
ask  if  you  intend  living  with — your  friend — on  your  joint- 
ure ?  " 

"Certainly  not,"  flushing  hotly.  "That  I  formally  re- 
sign now,  at  once,  and  forever.  And  I  think,  my  lord," 
drawing  up  her  figure  with  a  superb  gesture  of  injured 
pride,  "you  will  do  me  the  justice  to  remember  that  up  to 
this  I  have  spent  so  little  of  it  as  helped  me  to  clothe  my- 
self as  the  mistress  of  your  house  should  be  clothed.  I 
used  your  money,  not  for  my  own  good,  but  for  yours." 

"  Does — your  friend — know  you  are  determined  to  ac- 
cept nothing  at  my  hands  for  the  future  ?" 

"  No." 


272  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  You  have  not  mentioned  the  subject  to  him  ?" 

"  No.     There  was  no  necessity." 

"Ah!"  says  Branksmere,  "I  think,  however,  I  would 
have  mentioned  it  had  I  been  you  !  "  An  unpleasant  smile 
darkens  his  face.  "  The  money  is  yours,  remember,"  he 
says,  presently.  "  I  have  no  smallest  claim  to  it.  If  you 
decline  to  use  it,  it  will  in  course  of  time  lapse  to  the 
Crown." 

"That  doesn't  concern  me  :  I  have  no  further  interest 
in  it." 

"  And — he — your  friend — really  knows  nothing  of  this  ?" 

"Why  should  he  ?"  haughtily. 

"Ah!  That  is  just  it.  Why  indeed  ?  No  doubt  love, 
the  almighty,  will  be  more  to  him  than —  Did  I  under- 
stand you  to  say  vou  leave  this  house  to-night  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Will  you  permit  me  to  order  one  of  the  carriages  for 
you  :  or  has  your  friend  arranged  for  all  ?" 

"  You  are  pleased  to  be  insolent,  sir,  but " 

"  The  night  is  cold  :  let  me  at  least  " — pouring  out  a 
glass  of  wine — "induce  you  to  take  this  before  encounter- 
ing the  chilly  air." 

"Thank  you;  no.  I  shall  never  again,  I  hope,  touch 
anything  in  this  house."  She  moves  toward  the  door. 
Branksmere  coming  from  the  other  side  of  the  table  and 
following  her,  she  turns  upon  him  an  interrogative  glance. 

"  You  will  permit  me  to  see  you  as  far  as  the  wicket-gate 
— that  is  the  shortest  way  to  the  road,"  he  says,  answering 
her  unspoken  question.  "  The  night  is  dark  and  very 
cold." 

"  But  no  farther,"  hastily. 

"If  you  forbid  it,  certainly  not.  I  presume  you  are  tak- 
ing the  first  step  alone  ?  " 

"  Why,  no.  As  it  happens,  you  are  leading  me  in  it."  A 
short,  untuneful  laugh  parts  her  lips. 

"  Captain  Staines  is  not  to  meet  you  here  ?  " 

"  Why  should  he  meet  me  here  ? "  she  answers,  evasively, 
something  in  his  tone,  that  rings  through  the  remarkable 
calmness  of  it,  raising  a  feeling  of  mistrust  in  her  bosom. 
They  have  reached  the  large  hall  by  this  time,  and  are  now 
close  to  the  door. 

"What !  No  backward  glance  ?"  says  Branksmere,  with 
a  sneering  gayety.  "  The  last  look  is  an  orthodox  perform- 
ance. The  staircase,  they  tell  me,  is  of  the  very  purest 
early  English  type,  and  well  worth  remembrance." 


LADY  BliANKSMERK.  273 

"There  is  no  need  for  a  last  glance.  I  shall  remember 
this  house,  believe  me,  to  my  dying  day." 

"The  house  is  much  in  your  debt  ;  you  have  honored 
it  too  highly,"  returns  Branksmere,  with  bitter  meaning  ; 
as  he  speaks,  he  puts  out  his  hand  idly  and  possesses  him- 
self of  a  heavy  hunting-whip  lying  on  one  of  the  tables. 
He  weighs  it  lightly. 

"Why  are  you  taking  that?"  demands  she,  abruptly. 
With  a  sort  of  comfort  in  her  frozen  heart  she  remembers 
that  Staines  is  to  meet  her,  not  at  the  wicket-gate,  but  at 
the  one  lower  down,  so  that  a  meeting  between  the  two 
men  maybe  avoided.  A  moment  later  she  smiles  inwardly 
at  her  fear  ;  surely  the  last  thing  Branksmere  would  do 
would  be  to  quarrel  with  the  man  who  is  about  to  rid  him 
of  her  forever. 

"  I  shall  probably  step  round  to  the  kennels  when  I  have 
seen  you  safely  on  your  journey."  He  accompanies  his 
careless  answer  with  a  light  laugh.  It  jars  upon  her  even 
in  this  numbed  mood  of  hers.  When  he  has  seen  her 
safely  gone!  He  can  already  speculate  upon  the  next 
thing  then  to  be  done.  Life  will  go  on  for  him  in  the  old 

way,  the  dogs  will  be  caressed,  the Nay  !     Life  will 

be  a  new  thing  for  him,  a  joyous  resurrection  from  the 
ashes  of  the  hated  past  where  she  took  part.  There  is 
something  so  thoroughly  buoyant  in  his  whole  air  that  a 
feeling  of  sickening  disgust  takes  possession  of  her,  and 
weighs  her  to  the  earth.  Oh,  that  all  was  over  and  done, 
and  she  dead,  and  the  cruel  wrorld  forgotten  !  And  yet, 
alas,  how  wrould  death  avail  her  ?  What  place  can  be  for 
such  as  her  beyond  the  grave? 

Why,  she  has  been  so  little  to  him,  so  burdensome  a 
charge,  that  even  a  knowledge  of  the  dishonor  she  is 
bringing  on  him,  and  that  will  lower  him  in  the  eyes  of  his 
world,  is  insufficient  to  quell  within  him  the  sense  of  glad- 
ness, of  relief,  that  has  come  to  him  with  the  certainty 
that  now  she  is  about  to  pass  out  of  his  life  forever. 

Her  step  grows  more  hurried.  Arrived  at  the  wicket- 
gate,  she  stops  abruptly. 

"  Here  we  part,"  she  says,  aloud.  And  even  as  the  words 
pass  her  lips  she  becomes  aware  of  a  dark  figure  standing 
in  the  shadow  at  the  other  side  of  the  gate.  A  smothered 
ejaculation  falls  from  Branksmere.  Striding  forward,  he 
lays  his  hand  upon  the  arm  of  Staines. 
18 


274  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

CHAPTER  XLII. 

"What  hour  save  this  should  be  thine  hour — and  mine." 

STAINES  had  evidently  mistaken  the  place  of  appoint- 
ment, or  else  had  come  this  much  further  in  his  anxiety  to 
meet  Lady  Branksmere.  His  face  blanches  perceptibly  in 
the  dull  moonlight  as  his  eyes  meet  Branksmere's,  and 
instinctively  he  retreats  a  step  or  two,  and  looks  to  the 
right  and  left  of  him  in  a  hurried  fashion,  as  one  might 
who  is  meditating  flight. 

"  Ha,  sir  !  Well  met !  This  is  an  unexpected  pleasure  !  " 
says  Branksmere,  in  a  high,  clear  voice,  and  with  a  laugh 
that  makes  the  other's  blood  run  a  little  colder  in  his 
veins. 

There  is  a  dead  pause.  The  heavens  above,  that  a  short 
time  ago  showed  inky  black,  have  now  rent  their  gloomy 
pall  to  let  a  sullen  moon  shine  through.  She  throws  her 
rays  upon  the  three  figures  standing  in  an  absolute  qui- 
escence, as  if  scarcely  breathing,  lighting  up  Muriel's  pale, 
death-like  face,  and  betraying  the  strange  immobility  of 
her  features,  and  the  utter  lack  of  emotion  that  character- 
izes even  her  pose.  Branksmere's  face  is  set,  and  around 
his  lips  there  plays  a  sardonic  smile  that  Staines,  standing 
as  far  away  from  him  as  he  dares,  hardly  cares  to  see. 

"Your  usual  urbanity  seems  to  have  deserted  you. 
What !  not  a  word,"  continues  Branksmere,  breaking 
through  the  silence,  which  is  growing  strained,  and  ad- 
dressing Staines  with  an  air  of  genial  gayety  that  the  latter 
appears  to  regard  as  oppressive.  He  retreats  still  farther 
into  the  shade  of  the  laurels  as  Branksmere  deliberately 
approaches  him — as  if  with  a  purpose — and  with  an  ex- 
pression in  his  eyes  of  suppressed  but  deadly  fury.  Per- 
haps the  scene  would  now  have  had  a  speedy  end  had  not 
an  interruption  occurred  at  this  moment  that  attracts  the 
attention  of  all  three. 

Along  the  path  that  leads  to  the  wicket-gate  the  sound 
of  running  footsteps  may  be  distinctly  heard,  and  presently 
a  small  rounded  figure  comes  into  sight,  and  in  another  in- 
stant Mrs.  Billy  is  among  them.  The  surprise  she  evinces 
at  their  presence  here  at  this  hour  is  open  and  immense. 
Then  her  glance  grows  keen,  and  it  takes  her  but  a  little 
time  to  fully  grasp  the  situation,  or  at  least  the  headings 
of  it. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  275 

"  I  have  accomplished  my  task  half-way.  I  wanted  to 
see  you,"  she  says,  lightly,  smiling  at  Muriel.  "Are  you 
really  going  to  Lady  Blount's  to-morrow  ?  If  so,  will  you 
come  with  Margery  and  me  ?  The  night  was  so  pleasant 
after  the  heat  of  the  day  that  I  persuaded  Peter  to  walk 
out  with  me.  He  has  gone  round  to  the  yard  to  see  one 
of  the  men  about  some  dog,  but  I  came  straight  on  this 
way.  Lucky,  eh  ?  Peter  was  just  wild  with  me  for  want- 
ing to  come,  as  he  said  rain  was  in  the  sky,  but  now  I'm 
glad  I  fought  it  out  with  him." 

Slowly  she  had  been  reading  each  face,  one  after  the 
other,  and  now,  as  a  marked  silence  greets  her  little  speech, 
as  no  answer  is  vouchsafed  to  it,  she  knows  her  first  sus- 
picions were  correct.  She  throws  back  her  hood  and  turns 
her  gaze  anxiously  on  Branksmere,  who  is  deadly  white, 
and  whose  eyes  are  gleaming  dangerously.  There  is  some- 
thing fixed,  rigid,  about  his  expression  that  warns  her  if 
she  can  do  any  good  she  had  better  do  it  at  once.  With 
Mrs.  Billy,  knowledge  of  this  kind  means  action.  She 
turns  her  attention  from  Branksmere  to  Staines,  who  has 
grown  livid,  and  going  deliberately  up  to  him  lays  her  hand 
upon  his  arm. 

"  You  here,  too,"  she  cries,  in  her  gay,  pretty  voice  ; 
"the  moon  is  too  dull  for  it,  perhaps — but  doesn't  the 
whole  scene  remind  you  of  the  old  days,  when  in  the  gar- 
dens at  Wiesbaden  we  used  to  wander  beneath  the  lindens, 
you  and  I  ?  What  tete-a-tetes  those  were — what  a  lover's 
time;  and  how  you  swore  to  me  fidelity,  ch  ?  To  me! 
Why,  it  seems  like  yesterday,  so  clear  it  all  comes  back  to 
me." 

A  murderous  light  rises  in  Staines'  eyes.  He  would 
have  shaken  off  her  hand,  but  she  keeps  that  firm  little 
member  so  tightly  clasped  upon  his  sleeve  that  without 
actual  violence  he  cannot  get  away  from  her.  From  this 
he  would  not  have  shrunk,  but  for  the  knowledge  that  such 
violence  would  only  damage  his  already  injured  cause. 

"  Ah  !  and  those  other  days,"  begins  she,  again,  lightly, 
but  now  with  a  thrill  running  through  her-  voice — a  thrill 
of  angry  scorn.  "You  remember " 

"  Nothing"  interrupts  he,  hoarsely,  breaking  away  from 
her  at  last.  Lady  Branksmere  has  roused  from  her  leth- 
argy, and  has  drawn  a  step  nearer,  her  large  gray  eyes  di- 
lated, her  breath  coming  from  her  heavily. 

"Nothing!"  repeats  Mrs.  Billy,  .in  a  tone  even  more 
distinct.  She  laughs  a  low,  mocking  laugh  that  has  no 


276  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

music  in  it.  "  How  short  a  lover's  vows  may  be  !  Let  me 
remind  you  :  let  me  recall  to  your  mind  that  never-to-be- 
forgotten  night  at  Carlsbad  when  first  we  met !  That 
sunny  morn  among  the  flowers  at  Schlangenbad  ;  that 
tender  evening  spent  amid  the  falling  dews.  What !  has 
all  slipped  from  your  treacherous  memory  ?" 

Staines  makes  an  effort  to  speak,  but  fails. 

"At  least  you  will  remember  that  last  night  on  which 
we  met  ?  What  ?  Not  even  that  ?  See,  now,  I  think  I 
know  something  that  will  refresh  your  mind.  It  was  on 
that  very  night  that  the  unpleasant  little  affair  occurred  at 
the  Comte  de  Grailes'  rooms.  Perhaps  "  (airily)  "  you  can 
remember  that?  It  was  a  small  mistake  about  an  insignifi- 
cant card,  but  it  appears  the  Comte  was  paltry  enough  to 
take  notice  of  it.  Ah  !  You  do  recollect  it  ? " 

"This  is  the  man,  then  ?"  asks  Branksmere. 

"  Why,  yes.  Seeing  him,  how  can  you  doubt  it  ?  Mark 
the  noble  bearing  of  him,"  smiles  Mrs.  Billy,  pointing  to 
Staines,  who  is  cowering  before  her.  "  Is  he  not  the  very 
proper  hero  for  such  a  romance  ? " 

"You  knew  this  gentleman  abroad  !  You  knew  him  be- 
fore you  came  here  ? "  asks  Lord  Branksmere,  who  has 
noted  the  gleam  in  her  eyes  and  the  suppressed  indignation 
that  is  making  the  small  frame  tremble. 

"  You  have  guessed  it,  Branksmere.  This  gentleman  and 
I  are  well  acquainted."  She  stops  suddenly,  as  though  it 
is  impossible  for  her  to  go  on,  and  clenches  her  hands  and 
lets  a  heavy,  dry  sob  break  from  her.  How  is  she  to  tell 
it  ?  yet  she  has  promised  Margery  to  save  this  wilful  woman 
if  it  be  in  her  power  ;  this  woman  who  is  now  gazing  at  her 
with  a  ghastly  face  and  eyes  that  would  pierce  her  soul ! 
Mrs.  Billy  nerves  herself  for  a  supreme  effort,  she  flings 
from  her  all  thought  of  self,  and  stepping  more  clearly  into 
the  moonlight,  throws  out  her  hands  toward  Staines. 

"  This  man,"  she  says,  in  a  clear,  thrilling  tone,  "  once 
did  me  the  honor  to  seek  to  dishonor  me  !  " 

Her  face  falls  forward  into  her  hands. 

"Great  heaven!  This  is  more  than  one  should  dare 
expect  of  you,"  cries  Lord  Branksmere,  in  deep  agita- 
tion. 

Mrs.  Billy  lifts  her  head  and  looks  at  Staines  for  the  last 
time. 

"  My  husband  knows  all,"  she  says,  the  words  coming 
reluctantly  from  between  her  teeth.  "If  you  would  retain 
your  miserable  life  escape  from  this  without  delay  !  " 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  277 

She  turns  aside  as  if  to  leave  them  ;  then  pauses  to  lay 
her  shaking  hand  on  Branksmere's  sleeve. 

"  Respect  my  story  !  "  she  entreats  him,  in  a  low  tone. 
"  I  hardly  know  why  I  spoke." 

"/  know,"  returns  he,  pressing  her  hand.  In  another 
moment  she  has  glided  past  them  toward  the  house. 

"Is  this  thing  true?"  asks  Lady  Branksmere,  going 
straight  up  to  Staines. 

He  is  silent. 

"  Speak,  man  !  Answer  !  "  cries  she,  imperiously,  with  a 
stamp  of  her  foot. 

"N — o,"  lies  the  miserable  wretch,  with  falsehood 
written  in  the  very  swaying  and  bending  of  his  cowardly 
frame.  What  she  sees  convinces  her. 

"  Liar  !  "  she  gasps  beneath  her  breath.  Her  voice  is  so 
low  that  Staines  misses  the  word,  and  still  resolves  to  play 
the  winning  card  if  that  be  possible. 

"  It  is  a  disgraceful  fabrication,  got  up  by  that  woman  to 
spite  me,  because  I  would  not  respond  to  her  advances,"  he 
declares  loudly,  his  speech  growing  as  low  as  himself.  He 
almost  shouts  his  denial — so  weak  he  finds  himself  in  physi- 
cal courage  that  he  seeks  by  such  means  to  reassure  himself. 

"  A  very  wild  story,  as  you  say  ;  no  doubt  false  all 
through,"  says  Branksmere,  with  a  sinister  smile.  "  But  it 
was  hardly  to  consider  Mrs.  Daryl's  wrongs  we  came  here 
to-night.  Let  them  pass — until — Daryl  meets  you  !  What 
we  have  now  to  think  of  is  another  affair  altogether.  By 
the  bye,  what  has  brought  you  here  ?" 

He  is  now  close  to  Staines,  who  makes  a  movement  as 
though  to  depart.  Lord  Branksmere,  laying  his  hand 
quickly  upon  his  arm,  gives  him  a  sudden  jerk  that  brings 
him  to  the  front  in  a  second. 

"  My  good  fellow,  don't  go  until  we  come  to  an  under- 
standing," he  says.  "From  what  I  have  learned,  you  are 
anxious  to  take  charge  of  Lady  Branksmere  from  this  day 
forth  and  forever.  Eh  ?  Why,  speak  up,  man  ;  she  is  here 
listening  to  you.  She  will  want  a  spoken  assurance  of  your 
faith." 

The  gallant  Captain,  whose  knees  seem  here  to  cease  to 
be  a  portion  of  himself,  mutters  something  in  a  weak 
whisper  that  as  yet  is  unknown. 

"You  are  modest,"  goes  on  Branksmere,  still  with  a 
diabolical  calm  full  upon  him.  "We  are  waiting  for  the 
lover-like  statements  that  will  declare  your  desire  to  take 
charge  of  her  you  love." 


278  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

Goaded  by  this  into  speech,  Staines  makes  answer. 

"  If  you  understand  anything,"  he  says,  "it  is,  that  I  de- 
sire nothing  better  than  to  spend  my  days  insuring  the 
happiness  of " 

"  Quite  so  ! "  interrupts  Lord  Branksmere,  curtly. 
"You  are,  then,  prepared  to  support  her  ?  She  is  without 
fortune,  you  know.  There  was  a  certain  sum  settled  upon 
her  by  me,  but  that  she  does  not  take  with  her." 

"You  cannot  deprive  her  of  it,"  cries  Staines,  hoarsely. 

"True.  But  it  appears  she  rejects  her  husband's  gift, 
with  her  husband.  Speak  for  yourself  here,  madam,"  turn- 
ing to  his  wife.  "Is  this  so  ?  Is  this  as  vou  would  have 
it?" 

"  It  is  so,"  returns  she,  icily. 

Any  little  blood  that  still  remains  in  Staines'  face  now 
flies  from  it. 

"Well,  sir?"  questions  Branksmere.  "We  await  your 
word." 

But  still  the  terrible  silence  continues. 

Branksmere  bursts  into  a  loud  laugh. 

"  Come,  my  gay  lover  !  What !  not  a  word  ?  Is  the  be- 
loved one  ungilded  less  desirable  ?  Come,  now,  one  word, 
then,  if  only  for  honor's  sake.  Still  silent  ?  Why,  how  is 
this,  my  lady  ?  Has  this  lover  of  yours  no  tongue  ?  Has 
passion  rendered  him  dumb  ?  Nay,  reassure  him,  then. 
Tell  him  he  need  not  fear  that  poverty  with  him  has  any 
terrors  for  you  !  Still  silent,  man  !  " 

He  leans  toward  Staines,  and  Staines,  as  though  com- 
pelled to  it,  once  more  answers  him.  His  speech  is  ram- 
bling ;  it  grows  into  a  puerile  mumbling  at  last.  "  He 
should  dread  poverty  for  one  beloved  !  He  had  not  deemed 
it  possible  that  she  would  have  been  so  foolish  as  to — 
He  breaks  down  ignominiously. 

"The  truth!  The  truth!"  cries  Branksmere,  waving 
his  craven  apologies  aside.  "  What,  swindler !  can't  you 
even  raise  your  head  before  her  whom  you  profess  to  love  ? 
Does  not  affection  lend  you  courage  ?  Where  are  your 
thoughts  running  now,  eh?  To  that  little  affair  in  Wies- 
baden, perhaps,  that  has  damned  you  with  the  Junior  Army 
and  Navy?  Pshaw!  how  clear  it  all  grows."  Suddenly 
he  changes  his  tone.  "  You  have  not  a  penny  in  the  world, 
eh?" 

"Not  many,  certainly,"  confesses  Staines,  recklessly, 
driven  to  desperation  by  this  last  allusion  about  Wiesbaden. 

"  A  mendicant,  but  willing  to  turn  an  honest  penny," 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  279 

says  Branksmere.  "  I  know  your  sort,  I  think.  Your 
price  to  clear  out  of  this  ?  Name  it." 

"  Really "  begins  Staines,  stammering. 

"I  know  all  that,"  interrupts  Branksmere.  "  I  will  take 
for  granted  all  your  surprise  at  my  extraordinary  way  of 
treating  matters  ;  your  astonishment  that  I  should  think 
you  capable  of,  etc.  Let  us  come  to  the  point.  What  will 
you  take  to  leave  this  place  to-morrow  ?  A  thousand,  eh  ? " 

"  I  don't  deny  that  it  would  be  of  use  to  me,"  says  Staines, 
in  a  surly  tone. 

"  I  am  to  understand,  then,  that  you  value  your  affection 
at  one  thousand  pounds.  You  agree  to  this  sum  ?" 

"  Well — considering — 

"  Go  on.     What  am  I  to  consider  next  ?" 

"  I  had  not  prepared  myself  for  an  interview  of  this  sort. 
j " 

"  You  have  not  had  sufficient  time  to  think  over  your 
bargain.  That  can't  be  helped  now,  I  fear.  I  am  in  a 
hurry  to  get  to  the  close  of  it.  Come,  sir.  I  await  your 
final  answer  with  impatience."  His  fingers  close  over  the 
riding-whip  he  holds. 

"  It  is  all  so  new  to  me,  you  see,"  mutters  Staines.  "  I 
had  not  imagined  you — er — -would  have  taken  it  in  this 
way.  I  should  not,  of  course,  like  to  drag  Lady  Branks- 
mere into  a  life  of  pov — 

"  If  you  mention  Lady  Branksmere's  name  again,"  says 
Branksmere,  in  an  unpleasantly  slow  sort  of  way,  "I  shall 
kill  you  !  " 

"Oh,  it's  not  so  easy  to  kill  a  fellow,"  says.  Staines,  be- 
ginning to  bluster  a  bit,  Branksmere's  enforced  calm,  up 
to  this,  having  led  him  fatally  astray.  "  It  seems  to  me 
that  for  a  fastidious  man  of  honor,  such  as  you  boast  your- 
self to  be,  you  have  taken  all  this  precious  easily." 

"Your  price  !  "  says  Branksmere,  in  an  ominous  tone. 

"  But,  perhaps,"  with  a  sneer,  "you  looked  upon  me  in 
the  light  of  a  deliverer ;  if  so,  you  have  spoiled  your 
own — 

"  Your  price!"  says  Branksmere  again,  breathing  heavily. 

"You  offer  me  a  thousand  ;  but  you  should  take  certain 
things  into  consideration  when  making  an  arrangement  of 
this  kind,"  returns  Staines,  who,  having  recovered  from  his 
abject  fit  of  cowardice  of  a  moment  since  now  flies  to  the 
other  extreme,  and  grows  grossly  insolent,  with  a  view  to 
reasserting  himself.  "  Silence  on  the  subject  of  your  wife's 
character,  for  example,  and " 


280  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Damnation  !  " 

Almost  as  the  word  leaves  Lord  Branksmere's  lips  he 
has  Staines  within  his  grasp,  and  forcing  him  upon  his 
knees,  and  holding  him  by  the  collar  of  his  coat,  he  drags 
him  along  the  ground  until  he  has  him  at  Lady  Branks- 
me  'e's  feet. 


CHAPTER    XLIII. 

"Strong  reasons  make  strong  actions." 

"  LOOK  at  him,  regard  him  well,"  he  cries,  in  a  low,  ter- 
rible tone  :  "what  a  brave  front  he  shows  !  How  now,  my 
gay  Lothario,  where  are  your  winning  smiles  ?  Take 
heart,  man,  all  is  not  yet  lost.  That  equivalent  for  your 
disappointment  shall  be  yours  to-morrow  morning,  and 
now,  as  earnest  for  your  money  you  shall  have— this  !  " 

He  lifts  the  hunting-whip,  and  brings  it  down  with 
savage  force  upon  the  shoulders  of  the  kneeling  wretch. 
Like  hail  the  blows  descend  ;  the  miserable  hound  making 
no  resistance — nay  even  once  or  twice  crying  aloud  for 
mercy  as  the  pain  grows  keener. 

There  comes  a  moment  when  Branksmere  ceases  to  hold 
him,  and  Staines,  crawling  nearer  to  Muriel,  seizes  her 
skirt,  and  in  a  tone  wild  with  terror  implores  her  protec- 
tion. In  abject  fear  he  clings  to  her,  until  Branksmere, 
whose  fury  now  is  ungovernable,  cuts  away  the  trembling 
fingers  by  a  cruel  stroke  of  the  whip  that  is  now  nearly  in 
ribbons. 

Lady  Branksmere  sickens  a  little  at  this  sight,  and  lifts 
both  her  hands  to  her  head. 

"Enough,  enough!"  she  cries,  faintly.  "Let  him  go! 
Would  you  take  his  life?"  She  drags  Branksmere  back 
with  all  her  might.  "  Let  him  go  ;  for  my  sake." 

The  words  act  like  a  spell.  He  flings  the  half-dead 
Staines  from  him,  as  a  dog  might  fling  a  rat,  and  turns 
furiously  upon  her,  panting  more  from  passion  than 
fatigue. 

"Ah!  for  your  sake  !  You  love  him  still  then,  swindler, 
seducer  that  he  is  ?  " 

"No,  no,  believe  me.     I  was  thinking  of  you  then " 

"For  the  first  time,  eh  ?"  He  pushes  her  from  him, 
and  looks  back  thirstily  to  where  his  adversary  had  fallen, 
but  that  worthy  had  taken  advantage  of  the  interruption 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  281 

to  crawl  away  into  the  darkness  like  the  reptile  that 
he  is. 

''  Come,"  says  Branksmere,  once  more  approaching  his 
wife. 

"  Where  ?  "  asks  she,  shrinking  from  him. 

"  Back  to  the  house." 

"  No  !     Oh  !  no  ! "  with  a  strong  shudder. 

"  But  I  say  yes,"  sternly.  "  What !  "  with  a  stamp  of 
his  foot.  "  Would  you  have  this  indecent  farce  go  farther? 
Back  to  the  house,  I  say,  and  hide  this  night's  work  from 
the  world,  with  your  life,  if  it  yet  be  possible  ;  if,"  regard- 
ing her  fixedly,  "  I  still  can  rely  upon  your  word  that  you 
have  told  no  one  but  me  of  your  intended  flight." 

"  Why  should  you  doubt  it  ?  "  asks  she,  coldly.  "  Did  I 
conceal  anything  ?  When  did  I  lie  to  you  ? — even  of  this," 
with  a  comprehensive  gesture.  "I  warned  you.  It  is  you 
who  have  lied  to  me."  There  is  no  emotion  in  her  tone, 
no  indignation,  only  a  settled  indifference. 

"  Have  I  ?  "  says  Branksmere.  He  struggles  with  him- 
self for  a  moment,  and  then  goes  on.  "  Let  that  rest,  the 
present  has  to  be  considered.  Your  miserable  story  is 

known  now  only  to  you  and  me  and "  he  hesitates — he 

is  about  to  mention  Mrs.  Billy,  who  he  is  assured  is  cogni- 
sant of  all,  but  he  refrains,  "  and  to  that  cur,"  he  winds  lip 
through  his  teeth. 

"  But  after  this — to  see  you  every  day,"  falters  she 
faintly.  "To  be  obliged  to  speak — to  look — Oh!  it  is 
horrible  !  " 

"  If  I  can  bear  it,  you  can,"  returns  he,  significantly. 

"True,  you  have  shown  yourself  forebearing,"  she  says, 
and  shivers  a  little  as  if  with  cold.  And  in  truth  she  is 
cold  to  her  very  heartstrings.  Everything  is  at  an  end  for 
her.  Her  affairs  have  come  to  a  deadlock.  Hope,  even 
of  a  poor  sort,  is  killed  within  her.  Where  is  she  to  turn, 
where  to  go  ?  How  may  life  still  hold  sweets  for  such  as 
she  ?  "All  is  reaped  now  :  no  grass  is  left  to  mow,"  the 
end  indeed  has  come. 

There  is,  perhaps,  an  accentuation  of  her  grief  in  the 
thought  that  she  herself  has  had  the  chief  hand  in  it. 
With  all  the  world  before  her  where  to  choose,  she  had 
elected  to  wed  Branksmere  without  a  loving  thought  to- 
ward him,  and  now  where  is  she  landed  ?  Alas  !  for  the 
barrenness  of  the  coast,  the  cruelty  of  the  rocks,  the  force 
of  the  driving  waves  !  She  is  utterly  bankrupt ;  there  is 
no  escape  for  her — no  hope — nothing. 


282  LADY  BRANKSMERR. 

Not  another  word  is  uttered  between  them  until  they 
once  more  reach  the  library,  where  she  has  mechanically 
followed  him. 

"You  are  cold,"  he  says,  abruptly,  marking  the  tremb- 
ling of  her  frame  ;  "come  closer  to  the  fire."  He  would 
have  unfastened  the  lace  wrappings  round  her  throat,  but 
she  repels  him. 

"Don't  touch  me,"  she  exclaims,  in  a  fierce,  miserable 
tone. 

"  As  you  will,"  returns  he,  shrugging  his  shoulders. 
"  You  feel  injured  it  seems, .yet  I  think  you  should  feel  grat- 
itude at  this  moment  of  your  existence,  if  never  again." 

"  Gratitude  to  whom  ? " 

"To  Mrs.  Daryl.  You  should  thank  her  all  your  days 
for  what  she  did  for  you  to-night." 

"  Should  I  ?  " 

"  She  made  a  sacrifice  for  you  that  few  women  would 
have  made " 

"  And  which  I  did  not  desire.  Her  story  was  a  strange 
one  when  all  is  told.  What  a  confession  !  Yet  you  fall 
down  before  her.  How  much  better  is  she  than  me  ?  Oh, 
no,  m?/"  she  cries,  suddenly,  as  if  in  horror  of  herself, 
"  she  is  a  good,  a  pure  woman,  and  I  dare  not  malign  her  ; 
but  what  help  she  has  !  Her  happy  marriage  and  the 
love  :  always  she  has  love,"  she  ends,  in  a  broken  voice. 

"She  is,  as  you  say,  a  good  woman,"  returns  Branks- 
mere,  coldly. 

"And  therefore  a  thing  apart  from  the  rest  of  your  ac- 
quaintances," sneers  she. 

"You  at  least,  I  repeat,  should  be  grateful  to  her." 

"  And  yet  I  am  not,"  she  laughs,  suddenly,  in  a  low  but 
rather  wild  fashion. 

"  Still  hankering  after  that  precious  lover  of  yours," 
says  Branksmere,  contemptuously. 

"No.  I  am  regretting  only  the  .loss  of  the  last  hope  I 
had.  Henceforth  I  am  hopeless  ! "  Her  sad  laughter  has 
died  from  her,  and  now  she  hides  away  her  face  as  might 
one  who  is  stricken  to  death.  There  is  despair  in  her 
gesture. 

"  I  am  sorry  to  have  been  the  one  to  dissipate  your 
dream,  yet  that  is  the  best  service  I  could  have  done 
you."  Here  his  enforced  calm  gives  way.  "  Fool  !  "  he 
cries,  savagely,  "  can't  you  see  how  it  was  ? " 

"I  do  see,  and  yet  if  I  had  gone  with  him — 

"You  never  would  have  gone  with  him,  at  all  events. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  283 

If  he  had  refused  my  terms,  if  he  had  addressed  another 
word  to  you,  I  would  have  killed  him  as  I  would  a  dog  ! " 

"  Perhaps  you  have  killed  him,"  says  she,  indifferently. 

"  Such  vermin  die  hard.  Let  no  fears  for  him  mar  your 
rest  to-night.  The  remembrance  of  that  check  he  is  to  re- 
ceive to-morrow  morning  will  keep  him  alive." 

At  this  she  winces. 

"  To  persons  of  your  temperament,"  continues  he, 
"  safety  is  probably  a  dull  good,  yet  believe  me  it  has 
its  charms,  at  times.  To-night  you  have  returned  to  it." 

"  I  have  returned  to  my  prison,  rather,"  retorts  she,  bit- 
terly. She  turns  from  him  and  leaves  the  room. 

Slowly  she  mounts  the  stairs,  a  small  lamp  within  her 
hand.  Her  face  is  ghastly  pale,  her  blood  feverish  ;  a 
strong  shrinking  from  finding  herself  alone  with  her  own 
thoughts  leads  her  footsteps  toward  the  heavy  curtain  that 
has  behind  it  the  Dowager's  apartments,  and  Madame  von 
Thirsk's.  An  idle  fancy  to  waste  her  time  by  making 
some  inquiries  about  the  old  woman's  health  suggests  it- 
self to  her.  Moving  with  slow,  indifferent  steps,  she  draws 
back  the  curtain  noiselessly,  and  steps  into  the  dimly- 
lighted  ante-chamber  beyond. 

Her  senses  are  too  benumbed  to  permit  of  her  feeling 
any  very  great  surprise  when  she  meets  Madame  von 
Thirsk  here.  The  Hungarian  is  leaning  eagerly  out  of 
the  open  window,  as  though  in  expectation  of  something. 
The  sound  of  Muriel's  advancing  footsteps  reaching  her  at 
last,  she  turns  abruptly  toward  her. 

It  would  be  impossible  to  avoid  noticing  the  expression 
of  blank  dismay  that  overspreads  her  features  as  her  eyes 
fall  on  Muriel.  The  blood  rushes  in  a  crimson  flush  to 
her  brow,  and  then  receding,  leaves  her  white  as  death. 
Evidently  she  is  a  prey  to  some  very  violent  emotion, 
against  which  she  has  had  no  time  to  guard  herself.  To 
Lady  Branksmere  it  occurs  vaguely,  that  intense  and  ter- 
rible disappointment  is  what  is  most  plainly  written  upon 
her  mobile  face. 

"  I  have  disturbed  you,  Madame,"  she  says,  coldly,  re- 
garding her  with  a  judicial  scrutiny  that  the  other  woman 
plainly  resents. 

"Not  at  all.  I  was  but  looking  on  the  night,"  she  an- 
swers in  a  somewhat  quavering  voice  that  is  hardly  so 
carefully  English  as  usual. 

^'A  gloomy  picture."  On  the  instant  it  flashes  across 
Muriel's  mind  that  this  woman  knew  something  of  her  in- 


284  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

tended  flight.  Why  bad  she  looked  so  surprised,  so  baffled, 
when  she  saw  her?  Had  she  been  longing  for  her  depart- 
"ure  ?  Or — more  hateful  thought  still,  and  one  that  stings 
more  cruelly,  was  she  waiting  here  for  Branksmere  ?  Was 
there  an  appointment  arranged  between  them  ? 

Even  as  she  ponders  hurriedly  on  these  imaginings,  a 
slight  repetition  of  the  cry  that  had  come  to  her  twice  before, 
startles  her  into  more  active  thought.  Looking  round  in- 
stinctively to  Madame  she  finds  she  has  disappeared,  and 
that  she  is  standing  alone  in  the  ante-room.  Crossing 
hurriedly  to  the  Dowager's  door  she  knocks. 

It  is  opened  by  Brooks  ;  the  pale,  still  woman  who  had 
struck  Muriel  so  many  times  before  as  being  almost  blood- 
less. She  checks  Lady  Branksmere  as  she  makes  a  move- 
ment to  enter  the  room. 

"  Her  Ladyship  is  not  well  to-night,  my  lady.  I  think 
it  will  be  wiser  not  to  excite  her  with  your  presence." 

"  I  do  not  remember  that  my  presence  ever  excited  her 
before.  Was  it  she  who  uttered  that  cry  just  now  ?" 

"  A  cry,  my  lady  ?  "  The  woman,  who  as  a  rule  keeps 
her  eyes  fixed  immovably  upon  the  ground,  lifts  them  now 
suddenly  and  glances  at  Lady  Branksmere.  They  are  pe- 
culiar eyes,  so  light  as  to  seem  sightless. 

"  Certainly,  a  cry.  You  who  were  with  her  must  have 
heard  it." 

"  She  often  cries  aloud,  my  lady.  I  am  so  accustomed 
to  hear  it,  that  perhaps  I  took  no  notice."  Brooks's  voice 
is  low,  and  a  singular  expression  gathers  around  the  cor- 
ners of  her  thin  lips.  It  is  possible  she  had  not  heard  the 
cry  from  wherever  it  came,  and  is  now  hurriedly  dwelling 
upon  that  fact.  A  suspicion  of  excitement  enters  into  her 
manner,  with  a  very  open  desire  to  get  rid  of  Muriel  with 
all  speed.  "You  will  excuse  me,  my  lady,"  she  said 
quickly.  "  I  must  return  to  Madam." 

"  Return  by  all  means  ;  I  shall  go  with  you." 

"  Not  to-night,  my  lady.  I  beg  you  will  not  come  in 
here  to-night.  I  beg  you  will  not  disturb,  distress " 

"  Has  Lord  Branksmere  given  you  orders  to  forbid  my 
entrance  here  ? " 

"  No,  my  lady.  But  believe  me  it  will  be  wiser  not  to 
enter — to-night.  It  will  be  better  for  you  to  leave  this." 

"  So  I  shall  when  I  have  seen  Lady  Branksmere." 

"  You  cannot  see  her  ladyship  to-night,"  says  the  woman, 
in  a  tone  of  ill-suppressed  anger  that  is  curiously  mixed 
with  fear. 


LA  D  Y  BRA  NKSMERE. 


"Let  me  pass,"  returns  Muriel,  curtly.  For  the  instant 
it  occurs  to  her  that  the  woman  means  to  resist  her,  but 
a  thin,  high,  terribly  piercing  old  voice  coming  to  them, 
checks  any  further  argument.  It  is  the  Dowager's. 


CHAPTER   XLIV. 

"  I  know  him  a  notorious  liar, 
Think  him  a  great  way  fool,  solely  a  coward.'" 

"  WHO  is  there  mumbling  at  that  door,  Brooks  ?  Let  'em 
in  ;  let  'em  in,  I  say.  Am  I  to  be  kept  imprisoned  here  by 
you,  with  no  one  to  give  me  ever  a  good-day  ?  Let  'em 
in,  I  tell  you." 

"It  is  I,  Lady  Branksmere,"  says  Muriel,  advancing  to 
her,  and  leaning  over  her  in  the  hearse-like  bed  in  which 
she  lies.  If  it  could  be  said  of  anyone  so  old  that  she 
looks  older,  Muriel  would  have  thought  so  ;  older  and 
more  enfeebled  and  ghastlier.  The  hair  dressed  in  the 
fashion  of  a  long  past  generation,  looks  as  though  it  were 
clinging  to  the  skull  of  a  corpse,  the  wrinkles  on  the  fore- 
head resembled  leather  more  than  skin  ;  altogether  the 
poor  old  soul  suggests  the  idea  of  having  been  forgotten  by 
death,  and  left  here  to  slowly  moulder  above  ground  in- 
stead of  doing  it  more  reputably  in  the  family  vault 
among  the  bones  of  her  ancestors. 

"And  who  are  you,  eh?  eh?"  demands  the  old  creat- 
ure, lifting  her  weird  face  to  stare  at  Muriel,  whom  she 
had  seen  in  the  morning.  "  You  are  not  the  other  one, 
are  you? " 

"The  other?" 

"  Yes,  yes.  The  little  one  in  her  white  gown.  So 
pretty  ;  so  pretty,"  mumbles  the  old  lady,  her  head  nod- 
ding as  if  gone  beyond  her  control  in  her  excitement. 
"  Such  a  little  thing." 

"  Hush,  Madam  !  You  don't  know  what  you  are  say- 
ing," interposes  Brooks,  sharply.  "  Sometimes  she  raves, 
rny  lady,  and  you  know  I  warned  you  she  was  not  well  to- 
night." 

"  She  seems  to  me  quite  as  usual.  That  strange  hallu- 
cination, or  whatever  it  is  that  clings  to  her,  never  varies." 

"You  are  wrong,  Brooks;  wrong.  It  was  a  white 
gown  ;  and  there  was  blood  upon  it — bright  specks  of 


286  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

blood.  Eh  ?  Eh  ?  I  recollect  it  all.  Eh !  Oh !  my 
bonny  boy — my  handsome  laddie  ! "  Here  she  falls  into 
impotent  weeping,  until  Brooks,  with  a  sudden  jerk  of  her 
arm,  brings  her  into  another  position,  whereupon  she  is 
all  nods  and  becks  and  wreathed  smiles  again.  This  re- 
ceiving of  visitors,  and  the  idle  maunderings  to  them  of 
bygone  memories,  is  the  only  means  of  consolation  that 
she  acknowledges.  Once  Muriel  had  tried  to  read  a  Psalm 
to  her,  but  so  great  had  been  her  indignation  that  she 
never  attempted  it  again.  Now,  having  bidden  her  good- 
night, she  moves  toward  the  door.  As  Brooks  with  her 
eyes  on  the  ground  holds  it  open  for  her,  another  cry, 
very  low  and  subdued,  seems  to  creep  to  her  through  the 
semi-darkness  of  the  apartment. 

Muriel  lifts  her  head  sharply. 

"There  it  is  again.  That  was  not  Lady  Branksmere," 
she  says,  scrutinizing  the  woman's  face  keenly.  But  it 
never  moves. 

"What  is  it,  my  lady?" 

"That  terrible  cry.  It  sounded  like  the  wail  of  a  hurt 
animal,"  answers  Muriel,  with  a  shudder. 

"  I  heard  no  cry,  my  lady,"  says  the  woman,  sullenly. 
"  But  they  do  say  this  corridor  is  haunted." 

With  a  last  glance  at  her  impassive  countenance,  Muriel 
steps  from  the  room  and  hurries  swiftly  out  of  sight,  her 
head  throbbing,  her  heart  beating  wildly.  What  mystery 
lay  hidden  in  those  rooms — those  rooms  beyond  the  one 
where  the  old  dowager  lay  ?  From  whom  came  that  wild, 
melancholy  wail  ?  What  horrible  thing  is  hidden  in  this 
detested  castle?  And  now  to  know  that  she  must  forever 
dwell  beneath  its  roof  till  kindly  death  releases  her  ! 

She  sinks  upon  a  low  stool,  and  lets  her  proud  head  fall 
until  it  rests  upon  her  knees  round  which  her  hands  are 
clasped.  A  forlorn  figure,  void  of  hope.  Sadly,  desper- 
ately her  thoughts  wander,  now  here,,  now  there,  but — 
after  one  brief  dwelling  on  him  that  ends  in  a  long  drawn 
breath  of  heaviest  disgust — never  again  to  Staines.  He 
has  dropped  out  of  her  life,  and  with  his  loss  has  come  the 
knowledge  that  love  for  him  had  had  no  part  in  the  role 
she  had  planned  for  her  own  acting.  There  had  been  only 
the  desire  to  escape,  and  the  foolish  belief  in  his  love,  and 
above  all,  the  longing  for  revenge  ! 

And  now  what  is  left  her  ?  How  can  she  endure  the 
daily  intercourse  with  Branksmere — the  chance  meetings 
with  Madame.  These  last  may  indeed  be  avoided,  as 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  287 

Madame  for  the  last  week  or  two  has  elected  to  dine  in 
her  own  rooms,  stating  as  her  pretext  that  the  Dowager 
is  failing  fast ;  to  attend  whom  is  evidently  an  arduous 
task,  as  Madame  has  grown  singularly  wan  and  dejected 
during  this  fortnight. 

The  manner  of  the  woman  Brooks  to-night  has  taken 
strange  hold  upon  Muriel.  Of  one  thing  she  is  assured, 
that  if  anything  secret  lies  within  those  rooms,  she, 
Brooks,  knows  of  it.  To  solve  the  mystery  !  to  lay  bare 
this  hidden  thing  ;  to  confront  Branksmere  with  the  dis- 
graceful story  he  so  fain  would  hide  from  her,  his  wife ! 
It  were  well  worth  the  trial.  To  get  the  keys,  to  open 
wide  this  Bluebeard's  closet,  even  though  discovery  be  her 
own  ruin,  is  a  task  that  seems  so  good  to  her  that  involun- 
tarily she  springs  to  her  feet  with  flashing  eyes  and  parted 
lips,  though  still  her  dead-white  face  rests  pale  and  color- 
less. So  be  it  then.  If  Branksmere  compels  her  to  re- 
main within  his  doors,  let  him  look  to  it !  for  now,  her 
suspicions  thoroughly  awake,  she  will  show  no  quarter, 
but  will  lay  bare  this  guilty  secret,  whatever  it  may  be. 

No  sleep  comes  to  her  this  night.  Broad  awake,  she 
lies,  hour  after  hour,  with  her  eyes  wide  in  the  darkness, 
and  her  tired  brain  rushing  through  the  arid  plains  of  past 
griefs  and  joys.  She  would  gladly  have  broken  away  from 
all  such  miserable  memories,  and  wandered  into  the  realm 
of  dreams,  but  such  rest  is  denied  her.  Aloud  she  calls  on 
sleep  to  come  to  her,  but  all  in  vain  ;  each  well-known 
remedy  she  tries,  yet  fails  in  all. 

"  A  flock  of  sheep  that  leisurely  pass  by 
One  after  one  ;  the  sound  of  rain,  and  bees 
Murmuring  ;  the  fall  of  rivers,  winds  and  seas, 
Smooth  fields,  white  sheets  of  water,  and  pure  sky  ; — 
I've  thought  of  all  by  turns,  and  still  I  lie 
Sleepless. " 

The  dawning  of  the  morn  finds  her  still  with  her  eyes 
open,  staring  eagerly  for  the  first  faint  flecks  of  light. 

The  chill  soft  breeze  that  heralds  the  opening  day  has 
hardly  yet  arisen,  however,  and  darkness  still  covers  the 
land — a  profound  darkness  that  tells  of  the  coming  death  of 
Night.  A  figure,  cloaked  and  hooded,  emerging  from  the 
quaint  old  oaken  door  on  the  western  side  of  the  castle, 
looks  nervously  round  her  as  she  steps  into  the  blackness 
and  tries  to  pierce  it.  Moving  swiftly  and  unerringly, 


288  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

with  light,  firm  footstep  in  the  direction  of  the  wooded 
path  to  her  right,  she  enters  the  line  of  elms,  and  makes 
for  a  dense  bit  of  brushwood  further  on.  Arrived  at  it  she 
pauses,  and  a  low  "cooee"  issues  from  her  lips.  It  is 
answered  presently,  and  the  woman,  drawing  a  tiny  lantern 
from  beneath  her  cloak,  turns  it  full  upon  the  man  who 
has  answered  her  call. 

It  is  Staines,  though  it  is  easier  to  recognize  him  by  his 
clothes  than  his  features.  Bruised,  swollen,  utterly  de- 
moralized in  appearance,  with  a  large  strip  of  sticking 
plaster  across  his  Grecian  nose,  it  is  no  wonder  that  the 
woman  on  first  glancing  at  him  gives  way  to  an  exclama- 
tion of  horror. 

"What  is  it;  what  has  happened,  then  ?"  cries  she,  in  a 
low  tone.  "  I  sent  for  you  that  I  might  learn  how  the 
affair  fell  through,  but  I  had  not  expected  this."  Madame 
points  expressively  at  his  disfigured  face.  "  Well,  well, 
well  ?"  she  exclaims,  impatiently,  as  he  makes  her  no  re- 
ply. "  How  is  it  with  you  ? " 

"  It  is  all  up,"  snarls  he,  hoarsely.  "  Nothing  now  is  left 
but  flight." 

"What,  you  have /ai/ed  /  "  hisses  she  through  her  teeth. 
"  With  the  game  in  your  hands  you  have  lost !  Ach  !  "  she 
gives  way  to  a  free  curse  or  two  in  her  own  language,  and 
stamps  her  foot  with  irrepressible  passion  upon  the  ground. 

"  But  only  for  the  time  being,"  she  continues,  eagerly. 
"  You  will  still  win  ?  Is  it  not  ?  Patience — patience  and 
your  revenge  for  all  will  be  sure." 

"  No  it  won't,"  says  he,  doggedly  ;  "  I've  done  with  it. 
I'm  played  out,  I  tell  you.  That  Daryl  woman  came  upon 
the  scene,  and  damned  my  cause  with  her." 

"  Mrs.  Daryl !  what  had  she  to  say  to  you  ? "  asks  Mad- 
ame, whereupon  the  ingenious  Staines  gives  her  his  ver- 
sion of  that  little  romance  in  Germany. 

"And  this  you  kept  from  me,"  cries  Madame,  furiously, 
when  he  has  finished.  "Ah!  if  I  had  but  known.  Her 
silence  might  have  been  secured.  I  could  have  managed 
that,  when  one  remembers  she  had  a  husband  with  whom 
she  is  in  love.  Fool !  Idiot  !  could  you  not  trust  me  in 
such  a  matter  as  that.  If  your  scruples  about  betraying 
Mrs.  Daryl's  little  secret  were  so  strong,  still " 

"  I  don't  think  it  was  that,"  interrupts  the  magnani- 
mous Staines.  "  It  was  that  I  felt  secure  in  the  thought 
that  she  would  not  betray  herself.  But,"  sulkily  :  "There 
is  no  use  talking  about  it  now." 


LADY  BRANKSMERE,  289 

"You  will  not  make  one  more  effort  ?  Your  influence 
over — her,  is  surely  strong'  enough  to  enable  you  to  con- 
vince her  that  Mrs.  Daryl  lied." 

"  It  is  too  late,  I  tell  you  ;  she  never  so  much  as  looked 
after  me  when  he — when  I — that  is — when  I  left  them." 

"  Oh  !  to  have  toiled,  and  lied,  and  worked  for — this!  " 
cries  she,  wildly.  "  How  I  have  labored  to  place  that 
woman  beneath  my  feet  that  I  might  trample  on  her,  crush 
her,  and  now — to  be  entirely  baulked  of  my  revenge,  and 
all  through  your  imbecility." 

"  Hers  rather.  Had  she  not  told  Branksmere  of  her  de- 
termination to  leave  him,  she  would  have  been  well  out  of 
your  path  by  this  time.  He  would  gladly  have  been  rid 
of  her,  I  believe,  but  she  misunderstood  him  when  she 
supposed  he  would  make  no  fight  for  his  honor" 

"  Well,  you  have  lost  your  money,"  says  she. 

"  Why  !  no.  It  appears  she  had  made  up  her  mind  not 
to  touch  a  penny  of  it." 

"  Hah  !  "  She  comes  nearer  to  him  and  examines  his 
features  (which  look  rather  mixed)  in  a  curious  way.  "So 
that  was  why  you  did  not  make  a  greater  stand,"  she  cries. 
"  When  the  money  failed  you,  you  cried  off  !  You  have 
been  false  to  our  bargain.  You  have  destroyed  the  re- 
venge which  I  swear  to  you  was  more  to  me  than  the 
hopes  of  winning  his  love.  Ah,  poltron  !  coward  !  lache  !  " 
Her  frame  trembles  with  passion.  She  goes  nearer  to 
him  still,  and  turns  the  lamp,  with  an  insolent  air,  on  his 
bowed  figure,  and  the  generally  craven  appearance  that 
marks  him.  "So  he  beat  you!"  she  cries,  exultantly. 
"  Beat  you  before  her — your  ideal !  Ach — the  brave  fel- 
low !  "  She  breaks  into  a  loud,  derisive  laugh. 

"  Go  home  you  she-devil,  before  I  murder  you," 
breathes  Staines,  fiercely.  Seizing  her  by  the  throat  he 
shakes  her  violently  to  and  fro,  and  flings  her  from  him 
into  the  thick  darkness  of  the  shrubs  behind  her. 


CHAPTER   XLV. 

"  Filled  from  the  heart  to  the  lips  with  love, 

Held  fast  in  his  hands,  clothed  warm  with  his  wings." 

"WELL!"  exclaims  Mrs.  Billy,  in  a  heartfelt  tone.  She 
sinks  into  a  chair  and  looks  round  her — the  very  picture  of 
misery.  "  What  a  cruel  shock  to  him,  poor  fellow.  I  as- 

'9 


290  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

sure  you  the  news  has  made  me  feel  just  anyhow  !  Stick  a 
thing  to  go  and  happen  to  him." 

"  It  is  a  beastly  shame,"  says  Dick  indignantly. 

"What  is?  What's  the  matter?"  asks  Mr.  Paulyn, 
sauntering  into  the  room  at  Angelica's  heels,  with  whom 
it  is  quite  evident  he  is  not  now  on  speaking  terms. 

"Why,  haven't  you  heard  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Billy,  with  tears 
in  her  eyes,  "  about  poor  Curzon  ?  The  failure  of  that 
Cornish  mine  has  ruined  him." 

"  Bless  my  soul ! "  cries  Tommy.  "  What  a  horrid 
thought !  Where  is  he  ?  Who  told  you  ?  It's  a  lie  most 
likely." 

"No  such  luck,"  returns  Billy  dejectedly.  "It's  only 
too  true.  Poor  old  chap  !  I  had  a  line  from  him  about  an 
hour  ago,  and  Peter  has  run  down  to  him  to  bring  him  up 
here.  He  can't  be  left  by  himself,  you  know." 

"  Bless  my  soul  !  "  says  Mr.  Paulyn  again,  whose  conver- 
sational brilliancies  seem  to  have  deserted  him,  and  who 
appears  to  find  a  fund  of  consolation  in  thus  entreating 
blessings  on  himself.  Instinctively  his  eyes  turn  on  Mar- 
gery, who  is  sitting  a  little  apart  from  the  rest,  pale  and 
silent,  but  certainly  the  least  moved  of  the  lot. 

"  So  that  young  man  has  come  to  grief,  hey  ?  "  calls  out 
a  gruff  old  voice  from  the  hall  outside.  "Never  thought 
much  of  him  myself,"  Sir  Mutius  by  this  time  has  entered 
the  room.  "  Fools  and  their  money  soon  part." 

"  Uncle  Mutius,  how  can  you  so  speak  of  him  ;  how  was 
it  his  fault  ?  "  cries  Angelica  angrily.  "  Did  he  make  the 
hateful  mine  a  failure  ?  You  must  see  how  cruel  it  is  of 
you  to  talk  like  that." 

"  Hold  your  tongue,  miss!  What  d'ye  mean  by  being  so 
saucy?  D'ye  forget  that  I'm  your  uncle,  Angelica  ?  I  tell 
you  that  any  one  in  this  world  who  falls  from  riches  into 
poverty  will  be  counted  a  fool  by  most." 

"You  see  now,  Angelica,  what  a  reprehensible  thing  it 
is  to  be  so  hopelessly  ignorant  as  you  are,"  says  Mr. 
Paulyn,  shaking  his  head  reprovingly  at  his  cousin,  who 
looks  daggers  at  him  in  return. 

"Whilst  men  like  William,"  goes  on  the  old  mischief- 
maker,  "  who  raise  themselves  from  poverty  to  riches  by 
means  of  a  moneyed  wife,  are  always  applauded." 

If  he  had  hoped  to  incense  Mrs.  Billy  by  this  coarse 
allusion  to  her  wealth,  he  is  disappointed.  That  small 
matron  casts  a  glance  at  her  husband,  after  which  they  both 
break  into  untimely  mirth. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  291 

"Ah!  you  can  laugh,  can  you,"  growls  Sir  Mutius, 
"  when  your  chief  friend  is  so  sore  smitten  !  Poor  comfort 
he'll  get  from  you,  i'  faith,  in  spite  of  all  your  protestations. 
Well,  I'm  glad  /  never  professed  affection  for  the  young 
man.  I've  the  less  trouble  now.  How  about  you,  Margery  ? 
He  was  a  beau  of  yours.  Eh  ?" 

"Most  people  like  Margery,"  interposes  Mrs.  Billy 
quickly,  noting  something  mutinous  in  the  girl's  mouth. 
"And  Ctirzon  affected  us  all,  more  or  less.  You  must  not 
draw  conclusions,  Sir  Mutius,  from  the  fact  that  he  was 
here  so  often." 

"  Permit  me  to  say,  madam,  that  Mr.  Bellevv,  whom  you 
designate  so  familiarly  as  Curzon,  was  known  to  me  long 
before  your  advent,  and  that  you  can  hardly  post  me  as  to 
his  affairs.  I  say  he  was  in  love  with  my  niece  Margery, 
and  that  she  had  the  very  good  sense  to  have  nothing  to  do 
with  him.  A  fortunate  thing  now,  Margery,  as  things  have 
turned  out — hey  ?  If  you  had  engaged  yourself  to  him  you 
might  have  had  some  difficulty  in  getting  out  of  it,  and 
marriage  with  a  beggar  would  hardly  suit  you — eh  ? — ha  ! 
— Oh  !  Good-morrow,  Bellew  ;  good-morrow  !  " 

"You  are  right,  Sir  Mutius,  marriage  with  a  beggar 
means  only  misery,"  says  Curzon  calmly,  who  had  entered 
the  room  during  the  old  man's  speech.  He  is  looking  pale 
and  haggard,  but  not  beaten.  A  great  despair  lies  in  his 
honest  eyes,  born  of  a  renunciation  of  a  dear  hope,  but  he 
holds  his  head  as  high  as  ever,  and  there  is  no  faltering  in 
his  clear,  sweet  voice. 

"  It  is  quite  true,  then,  Curzon  ?  Is  there  no  chance  for 
you  ? "  asks  Angelica,  who  lias  run  to  him,  and  thrown  her 
arms  round  his  neck  to  give  him  a  loving  kiss. 

"  None  whatever,"  bravely,  "  in  the  way  you  mean.  I 
went  up  to  my  lawyer  about  it  this  morning,  and  it  ap- 
pears when  all  is  over  and  done  I  shall  be  left  with  about 
^£400  a  year.  The  old  place,  of  course,  will  have  to  go, 
and —  He  stops  abruptly,  and  walks  over  to  the  win- 

dow. Mrs.  Billy  and  Angelica  burst  into  tears  ;  the  men 
fidget.  Margery  alone  remains  calm  and  unsympathetic 
as  a  statue. 

"Oh  !  hang  it,  you  know,  it's  impossible  ;  a  fellow  can't 
be  swindled  like  that,  without  any  redress,"  breaks  out 
Tommy,  commencing  to  prance  about  the  room.  "  Let's 
all  put  our  heads  together,  and  try  what  can  be  done." 

"  Nothing  can  be  done,"  says  Curzon,  turning  round 
again.  "  I've  thought  it  all  out,  and  in  time  I  shall  be 


292  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

reconciled  to  it.  I  shall  forget  it  all — that  is  " — looking 
down — "nearly  all  !  And  one  can  work,  you  know  ;  and 
there's  many  a  fellow  hasn't  even  £400  a  year." 

"  No,  by  Jove,"  acquiesces  Dick  heartily,  who  hasn't  a 
penny  beyond  what  his  brains  will  bring  him. 

"I  dare  say  to  some,  therefore,  that  amount  might  mean 
riches,"  goes  on  Curzon,  pleading  his  own  cause  bravely, 
"  though  I  agree  with  you,  Sir  Mutius  " — looking  at  him 
with  a  kind  smile — "  that  it  really  does  mean  beggary. 
But  that  is  the  result  of  one's  training." 

"  No,  no,  don't  mistake  me,"  says  the  old  baronet,  bring- 
ing his  stick  firmly  down  upon  the  carpet.  "Four  hun- 
dred pounds  a  year  is  not  to  be  despised.  It  is  an  excellent 
sum,  excellent,  and  may  be — 

"But  not  to  one  accustomed  to  as  many  thousands,"  in- 
terrupts Mrs.  Billy  tearfully. 

"  I  was  going  to  say,  when  you  so  rudely  interrupted 
me,"  goes  on  Sir  Mutius  crossly  ;  "that  if  properly  utilized 
such  a  sum  might  make  the  foundation  of  a  fortune.  Now 
abroad — "  spreading  forth  his  hands  and  lifting  his  brows, 
and  casting  his  glance  full  of  the  liveliest  encouragement 
at  Curzon — "  there  is  great  scope  for  a  young  man's  intel- 
lect when  backed  up  with  a  little  capital.  You  might  go 
to  New  Zealand,  for  example — a  fine  opening  there — or  to 
Australia,  or  to  Canada." 

"  Or  to  the  Deuce ! "  supplements  Billy  cheerfully.  "  But, 
after  all,  perhaps,  none  of  us,  however  lucrative  the  post, 
Avould  hardly  care  to  see  him  there." 

"  You  are  flippant,  William,"  growls  Sir  Mutius,  frown- 
ing. 

"What  Sir  Mutius  means,"  says  Curzon  boldly,  though 
his  lips  turn  very  white,  "  is,  that  he  would  be  glad  to  see 
me  well  out  of  this  country  because  of  Margery.  But  there 
he  is  mistaken.  I  assure  you,  Sir  Mutius,  your  niece  never 
gave  me  any  cause  to  hope  she  loved  me,  never  even  when 
I  had  something  to  offer  her,  and  now — 

"I  am  very  glad  to  hear  it  from  your  lips,  too,  although 
I  knew  it  before.  My  niece,  sir,  is  a  young  woman  of 
sense.  She  will  marry  well,  if  she  marries  at  all." 

"That  is  quite  true!"  The  voice  is  Margery's,  and  a 
sudden  silence  falls  upon  the  room  as  she  speaks.  She 
has  risen  from  her  seat,  and  is  looking  with  her  beautiful 
eager  eyes  full  at  Bellew.  "  I  shall  do  well  indeed  if  I 
marry  Curzon  !  "  She  advances  toward  Curzon  in  a  slow 
dreamy  fashion,  and  then  stops  short  and  holds  out  her 


LADY  BRANKSMER&  293 

hands  to  him.  "  Will  you  have  me,  Curzon  ?  "  she  asks 
softly. 

"  No — no,"  cries  Bellew,  pressing  her  back  from  him. 

"  I  understand  the  sacrifice,  my Don't  make  it  so  hard 

for  me,  Margery  ;  you  are  all  so  kind,  so  tender,  and  now 
this  from  you  ! — my  best  friend,  no." 

<;  Ah  ! "  murmurs  she  piteously,  in  a  very  agony  of  dis- 
tress. "  Why — don't  you  know  ?  "  she  covers  her  face  with 
her  hands.  "  Take  me  away  from  this,"  she  whispers 
faintly. 

"Yes,  go.  Into  the  garden — anywhere!  believe  her—- 
believe every  word  she  says,"  cries  Mrs.  Billy,  pushing 
them  both  toward  the  door. 

"Come  back  here,  Margery — come  back  I  say,"  roars 
Sir  Mutius  ;  but  Margery  has  gone  beyond  his  lungs. 
"And  to  think  that  I  meant  to  make  that  girl  my  heiress!" 
cries  he  raging.  "  But  she  shall  see — she  shall  see  ! " 

At  present  she  sees  nothing — not  even  Curzon,  who  is 
standing  beside  her  a  very  monument  of  despairing  love. 

"Don't  be  so  unhappy  about  it,"  he  says  gently,  mistak- 
ing her  embarrassment.  They  have  readied  the  inner  gar- 
den and  are  safe  from  prying  eyes.  "  Do  you  think  I 
don't  understand  the  generosity  that  prompted  you  to 
speak  when  Sir  Mutius  was  making  himself  so  objection- 
able ;  do  you  think  when  you  said,  'Why — don't  you 
knowT  ? '  that  I  didnt  know  ?  My  darling,  were  you  afraid 
I  should  take  you  at  your  word  ?  I  sometimes  used  to 
think  that  as  you  liked  me  (you  do  like  me,  don't  you, 
Margery  ?)  and  as  it  was  in  my  power  to  make  you  happy 
in  many  little  ways,  that  it  was  no  harm  to  try  and  induce 
you  to  marry  me  ;  but  now —  Well,  it  is  out  of  my 
power  to  make  you  happy  in  the  little  ways  now,  and " 

"  Let  me  speak,"  cries  she  distractedly.  "  Oh  !  Curzon, 
there  is  something — a  small  thing — just  one  thing  that  I 
must  tell  you." 

"  That  you  never  really  cared  for  me?  Why,  I  knew 
that,  my  love,"  replies  he  rather  wearily. 

"  No.  Oh  !  no."  She  stands  back  from  him,  and  glances 
at  him  rather  shamefacedly.  Then  comes  a  step  nearer. 
"  It  is  only — that  I  do  love  you  so!'"  she  cries  suddenly, 
the  tears  running  down  her  cheeks. 

"  Take  care,  Margery.  Remember  everything  ! "  says  Bel- 
lew,  trembling.  "I  am  poor.  I  have  nothing  now" — with 
deep  agitation — "  worth  offering,  save  my  love.  You  know 
that." 


294  LADY  BRAXKSMERE. 

"  It  is  because  I  do  know  it  that  I  speak.  All  at  once  I 
seemed  to  know  !  When  you  came  into  the  room  and  stood 
before  us  all,  with  that  pale  look  upon  your  face,  and  said 
that  you  were  ruined,  I  felt  at  once  that  if  you  hadn't  a 
farthing  on  earth  I  was  born  to  be  your  wife." 

"  My  little  sweet  soul  !  "  says  Curzon,  in  a  low  breathless 
tone.  He  has  not  gone  nearer.  It  seems  as  though  he 
can  do  nothing  but  look  at  her,  so  fair,  so  sweet,  and  all 
his  own.  She  has  lifted  her  hands  to  her  pretty  flushed 
cheeks,  and  now  she  raises  her  eyes  to  his  shyly. 

"Won't  you  have  me  for  your  wife,  Curzon  ? "  she  whis- 
pers tremulously,  and  then  in  a  moment  she  is  in  his  em- 
brace, their  arms  round  each  other,  their  eyes  look  long,  as 
though  each  would  search  the  other's  heart,  and  when  at 
last  their  lips  meet,  ruin  and  trouble  and  possible  poverty 
are  forgotten,  and  a  breath  from  heaven  is  theirs. 

For  love  !  Thy  purest  and  greatest  gift  ;  let  i:s,  oh  ! 
Thou  Giver  of  all  things,  be  duly  grateful  ! 

"You  are  sure  you  love  me?"  asks  he  presently,  as 
though  fearful  of  her  answer. 

"Quite — quite  sure,"  earnestly.  "And  so  happy  in  the 
thought  that  you  love  me." 

"  You  must  have  been  happy  in  that  thought  a  long  time, 
darling." 

"  How  much  you  have  borne  from  me,"  she  murmurs 
softly.  "  How  bad  I  have  been  to  you  !  There  is  a  line 
somewhere  that  always  reminds  me  of  you  ;  you  have  been 
so  good,  so  patient.  '  He  was  therewith  full-filled  of  gentle- 
ness.' I  have  thought  it  all  out  long  ago,  you  see,  but  I 
never  was  certain  of  myself  until  to-day." 

"  Until  I  told  you  that  I  had  lost  everything  ? " 

"Yes." 

"Then  I  am  glad  that  mine  failed, ''  says  this  foolish 
young  man,  simply  and  truly,  and  from  his  heart. 

"That  isn't  a  very  wise  thing  to  say,  is  it?"  murmurs 
Miss  Daryl  thoughtfully.  "And  yet,  do  you  know,  I  my- 
self don't  feel  sorry." 

"Of  course,  we  shall  have  something,"  says  he  ruefully. 
"  But  £400  a  year  !  It  is  penury." 

"It  is  opulence,"  gayly,  "with  the  love  we  can  throw 
in." 

"  Oh,  Margery  !  If  I  was  sure  you  would  never  regret 
it.  But  it  looks  to  me  almost  like  a  swindle  to  get  you  to 
marry  me,  now  that  I  am  worth  almost  nothing.  If  you 
should  ever  reproach  me  it  would  almost  kill  me.  Not  that 


LADY  BRAA'A'SMKRI-:.  295 

that  would  signify  at  all,"  hastily.  "  Only  I  am  afraid  the 
disappointment  and  the  worry  might  make  you  miserable." 

To  this  she  returns  no  answer,  save  a  terrible  silence. 
With  her  eyes  fixed  obstinately  upon  the  ground  she  lets 
a  full  minute  go  by  without  a  word  from  her;  a  sure 
method  of  betraying  one's  anger  !  Curzon  feels  it.  Her 
indignation — that  touches  him  instinctively,  yet  is  not  un- 
derstood by  him  at  the  moment — lies  like  a  weight  upon 
him. 

"  You  are  vexed  with  me  !  "  he  says  contritely. 

"  Have  I  no  cause?"  she  answers,  with  quick  reproach. 
And  then  with  a  sudden,  pretty  shy  impulse,  she  over- 
comes herself,  and  drawing  a  little  closer  to  him,  winds 
her  soft  arms  around  his  neck  as  a  child  might  do,  and 
raises  her  lips  to  his  as  though  asking  for  a  caress.  This 
demand,  how  sweet  it  is  !  His  clasp  tightens  round  her. 

"  The  cause,  sweetheart  ?  " 

"  That  you  should  ask  it !  And  yet  I  have  given  you 
reason  indeed  to  doubt  me.  But  do  not,  Curzon.  Try  to 
believe  that  poverty  and  privation  with  you  would  be 
sweeter  to  me  than  life  with  any  other  man,  had  he  the 
mines  of  Golconda." 

"  I  do  believe  you,"  says  Bellew. 

This,  indeed,  is  the  last  doubt  he  ever  entertains  of  her. 

"You  must  forgive  me  if  I  pained  you,  but  I  have  been 
left  so  long  without  hope  to  comfort  me,  that  certainty, 
now  it  has  come,  has  dazzled  me."  Then,  "Darling,  I  love 
you.  How  I  love  you,"  he  breathes,  rather  than  speaks. 

She  laughs  softly,  and  the  dawn  of  a  blush  breaks  upon 
her  cheek. 

"  I  know  that,"  she  says  saucily.  "  If  you  don't  trust  me, 
you  see  I  trust  you.  But  of  one  thing  I  warn  you,  Curzon, 
that  I  am  not  married  to  you  yet.  There  is  many  a  slip, 
you  know." 

"Not  when  one  is  fairly  caught." 

"Caught  !"  stepping  daintily  behind  a  huge  rose  bush. 
"  Who  said  that  word  ?  Am  /caught,  think  you  ?  Well, 
a  last  chance  then  !  If  you  catch  me  before  I  reach  the 
yew-tree  over  there,  I'll " 

Most  unfairly  she  starts  away  across  the  velvet  sward, 
straight  for  the  desired  harbor,  giving  him  hardly  time  to 
understand  her  challenge.  But  love  has  wings,  and  before 
she  has  reached  the  aged  yew  she  is  in  his  grasp,  and  once 
for  all  she  owns  him  conqueror. 


296  LADY  BRANKSMEKE. 


CHAPTER   XLVI. 

"  Every  sense 
Had  been  o'erstrung  by  pangs  intense,. 

And  each  frail  fibre  of  her  brain, 

Sent  forth  her  thoughts  all  wild  and  wide.'' 

MADAME  VON  THIRSK  has  fallen  asleep.  A  glorious  flood 
of  October  sunshine  streaming  into  the  library  reveals  this 
fact. 

Although  so  late  in  the  autumn  the  clays  are  still  bright 
and  enjoyable  ;  there  is  only  a  pleasant  chill  upon  the  air, 
and  the  leaves  fall  softly  to  their  graves  through  golden 
gleams  of  sunlight.  The  wind  that  lifts  them  from  their 
boughs  and  wafts  them  to  the  breast  of  the  earth  is  full  of 
vigor,  and  indeed  the  whole  air  is  rich  in  a  vitality  that 
should  give  him  who  breathes  it  renewed  strength.  Ma- 
dame, however,  seems  to  have  derived  small  benefit  from 
it.  Lying  back  in  her  chair,  in  a  slumber  so  deep,  so  mo- 
tionless as  to  suggest  exhaustion,  one  may  notice  the  lines 
of  care  or  anxiety,  or  perhaps  subtly  concealed  sorrow  that 
marks  each  feature.  Her  lips  are  pale  and  drawn,  her 
cheeks  sunken,  dark  shadows  lie  beneath  her  eyes,  that 
seem  as  though  sleep  had  for  some  time  past  been  a  stran- 
ger to  them.  She  looks  anything  but  her  best  ; — to  look 
that,  one  must  be  happy,  and  grief  and  she  appear  to  be  on 
friendly  terms. 

Lady  Branksmere,  who  has  entered  the  room  in  her 
usual  slow,  lifeless  fashion,  so  lightly  as  to  fail  to  disturb 
so  heavy  a  sleeper,  draws  near  to  her  through  a  sort  of  fas- 
cination, and  standing  over  her  stares  down  upon,  and 
studies  the  face,  so  impenetrable  as  a  rule,  but  now  laid 
bare  and  unprotected  in  its  unconsciousness. 

For  a  long  time  she  gazes  upon  the  woman  she  deems 
her  rival,  a  bitter  smile  upon  her  lips.  Then  her  eyes 
wander  over  Madame's  elaborately  simple  toilette,  over 
the  exquisitely  shaped  little  brown  hands  so  covered  with 
costly  rings,  over  the  carefully  careless  knot  of  ribbons 
upon  her  breast,  clown  to  her  waist,  where,  something 
catching  her  eye  rivets  her  attention  immovably  and  puts 
an  end  to  her  idle  examination. 

After  all  it  is  only  a  kev.     A  well-sized  key  of  a  very  or- 


7.1  DV  BRANKSMRRK*  297 

dinary  type.  In  effect  a  door  key!  It  could  hardly  be 
termed  an  ornament,  such  as  might  be  worn  by  so  fastidi- 
ous a  dresser  as  Madame,  yet  it  hangs  now  from  her  belt 
by  a  slight  but  strong,  silken  cord.  It  had  evidently  been 
concealed  in  the  bosom  of  her  gown,  and  had  escaped  dur- 
ing her  slumber,  and  is  now  lying  so  that  any  one  may 
see  it. 

Lady  Branksmere's  lips  pale,  and  her  eyes  grow  bright 
as  they  rest  upon  it.  Not  for  one  moment  does  she  hesi- 
tate. She  forms  her  purpose  on  the  spot,  nor  falters  in 
the  fulfilling  of  it.  All  is  fair  in  love  and  war,  and  surely 
it  has  been  war  for  many  a  month  between  this  woman 
and  her.  Taking  up  a  pair  of  scissors  lying  on  the  table 
near,  she  cuts  deliberately  the  silken  cord,  and  possessing 
herself  of  the  key  leaves  the  room. 

Not  once  does  her  heart  fail  her.  And  when  she  stands 
before  Madame's  door  and  fits  the  key  into  the  lock,  and 
throws  it  open,  and  at  last  crosses  the  threshold  of  the  for- 
bidden chambers,  no  sense  of  fear,  no  desire  to  draw  back 
whilst  yet  there  is  time,  oppresses  her,  only  a  longing  to 
solve  the  problem  that  for  so  many  days  has  been  an  insult 
to  her.  Surely,  as  it  seems  to  her,  the  right  is  on  her 
side.  As  an  outraged  wife,  she  takes  her  stand.  He — 
Branksmere — had  compelled  her  to  return  to  his  roof,  had 
cut  from  beneath  her  feet  the  sweet  revenge  she  had  so 
carefully  prepared,  had  foiled  her  effort  to  escape,  by 
which  not  only  her,  but  his,  freedom  might  have  been  se- 
cured, and  now Well,  now  let  him  look  to  it.  If  he 

has  insisted  upon  her  return,  and  forced  her  to  occupy  the 
position  of  head  of  his  house,  she  will  exercise  the  powers 
given,  and  refuse  to  permit  within  her  house  apartments 
denied  to  her. 

She  throws  up  her  head,  and  it  is  with  a  sense  of  posi- 
tive triumph  that  she  steps  into  the  first  room  and  looks 
around  her. 

A  charming  room,  delicately  but  simply  furnished.  An 
easel  in  one  corner,  a  few  water-colors  lying  loosely  upon 
the  tables,  and  a  low  lounge,  covered  with  a  dainty  cre- 
tonne ;  a  Valerie  jar  or  two,  and  a  Dresden  bowl,  made 
sweet  with  flowers  ;  a  few  Indian  mats.  A  little  breeze 
that  comes  through  the  open  windows  wafts  to  and  fro 
the  soft  white  curtains.  Upon  the  hearth  a  gentle  smoul- 
dering fire.  Altogether  it  is  a  restful  room,  that  speaks 
of  a  mind  at  peace  with  aH  the  world. 

Muriel  takes  it  in  at  a  glance,  and  hastens  toward  the 


298  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

door  opposite  to  the  one  she  has  entered.  It  leads  to  a 
room,  small,  and  evidently  meant  as  a  mere  passage  from 
the  room  left  to  the  one  beyond,  the  door  of  which  is  par- 
tially open.  Muriel  has  half  crossed  this  ante-chamber, 
when  a  soft  musical  sound,  coming  apparently  from  some 
place  near  at  hand,  causes  her  to  stand  still.  The  voice  of 
one  singing.  Yet  hardly  singing,  either.  There  is  not 
sufficient  coherence  about  it  to  let  such  a  term  be  applied 
to  it  ;  it  is  rather  a  low  harmonious  crooning  that  breaks 
upon  her  ear.  The  sound  is  sweet,  and  pathetic,  and 
young  ! 

Muriel's  heart  begins  to  beat  tumultuously.  A  voice 
here,  a  woman's  voice,  and  Madame  von  Thirsk  asleep 
downstairs  !  What  can  this  mean  ?  Is  she  on  the  brink 
of  the  discovery  of  some  mystery  that  hitherto  has  come 
to  her,  vaguely  indeed,  and  never  in  such  a  guise  as  this  ? 
Who  is  this  singer  ?  She  pushes  open  the  half-closed  door, 
and  steps  lightly  into  the  room. 

At  the  far  end  of  it,  seated  on  a  prie-dieu,  with  her  lap 
full  of  flowers,  sits  a  girl — a  pale,  slender  girl — dressed  all 
in  white.  There  is  not  an  atom  of  color  about  her  any- 
where, and  her  face,  which  is  a  fine  oval  one,  is,  if  possible 
more  colorless  than  her  gown.  Her  eyes  are  lowered,  and 
she  is  playing  in  a  curiously  absent  way  with  the  blossoms 
amongst  which  her  fingers  are  straying  aimlessly,  and  is 
singing  to  them  in  that  strange  monotone  that  had  star- 
tled Muriel. 

Now  she  looks  up — some  instinct  that  tells  her  some  one 
is  watching,  making  her  senses  keen.  She  stares  straight 
at  Muriel,  and  her  eyes  are  a  revelation.  They  are  blue, 
but  such  an  unearthly  blue,  and  what  is  the  cold  dull  gleam 
in  them  ?  And  are  they  looking  at  Muriel,  or  at  some  ob- 
ject beyond  her  ?  Her  fingers  still  play  idly  amongst  the 
flowers,  whilst  these  strange  eyes  of  hers  are  wandering 
vaguely. 

"  Come  in,  come  in,"  she  murmurs  eagerly,  so  eagerly 
that  Muriel  ponders  within  herself  as  to  whether  she  and 
this  white,  smiling  girl  may  not  have  met  before  under 
different  circumstances.  That  she  betrays  no  agitation, 
no  awkwardness  at  thus  coming  face  to  face  with  the 
hostess  who  has  not  invited  her  to  her  house,  is  strange 
indeed.  She  is  looking  unconcernedly  at  Muriel,  with  a 
smile  upon  her  lips — a  soft,  yet  stereotyped  smile  that  is 
rather  unpleasant. 

Has  she   ever  met  her  before  ?     Surely  she  must  have 


LADY  BRAXK'SMERE.  299 

done  so,  so  utterly  without  surprise,  so  friendly  is  the 
greeting  she  accords  her.  And  then  that  expression  about 
the  mouth — shadowy,  but  yet  like  who — is  it  like  ? 

"More;  have  you  brought  more?"  asks  the  pale  girl 
anxiously,  leaning  forward,  the  eternal  smile  still  upon 
her  face.  It  seems  to  Muriel  that  she  would  be  almost 
more  than  beautiful  but  for  the  nameless  something  that 
mars  her  expression.  "  I  haven't  nearly  enough,"  she 
goes  on  confidentially ;  "  see,  it  is  quite  a  poor  show 
yet." 

She  waves  her  hand  about  the  room  blithely,  but  in  a 
rather  disconnected  way,  and  Lady  Branksmere  following 
her  gesticulations,  sees  that  the  apartment  is  literally 
crowded  with  flowers,  of  all  kinds  and  all  hues,  save  one. 
No  crimson,  red,  or  scarlet  blossom  lies  among  them. 

She  brings  back  her  glance  again  to  the  girl,  and  now 
regarding  her  more  fixedly,  perceives  that  the  face  is  not 
so  young  as  she  had  at  first  imagined.  A  little  shudder 
passes  over  her  as  she  meets  the  stranger's  more  direct 
gaze,  and  sees  that  she  has  risen  and  is  coming  toward  her. 
Her  glance  is  half-exultant,  half-cunning.  She  creeps 
closer  to  Muriel  and  whispers  slyly. 

"  Do  you  know  whose  birthday  it  is  ?  " 

"  No,"  in  a  frozen  tone. 

"  No  ?  Why  it  is  his  !  That  is  why  the  flowers  are  here, 
the  flowers  he  loves  so  well."  Muriel  stares  at  her. 
Branksmere's  passion  for  flowers  had  not  come  beneath 
her  notice.  "  By  and  by  for  dinner — we  dine  late,  he  and 
I — I  shall  be  decked  with  them.  He  likes  to  see  me  so. 
His  heart's  ease,  as  he  calls  me.  A  pretty  name,  eh  ?" 

She  is  running  her  fingers  up  and  down  Muriel's  arm  as 
she  speaks,  with  a  slow,  lingering  touch.  Lady  Branks- 
mere abruptly  moves  beyond  her  reach. 

"  He  dines  with  you  ! "  she  repeats  in  a  voice  of  disgust. 
Then,  icily,  "  Do  you  know  who  I  am  ?  Whose  house 
this  is  ?" 

"His,"  says  the  girl  absently.  "Oh!  yes,  he  will  come 
to-night.  Sometimes,"  dropping  her  voice,  "he  cannot 
come,  because  there  is  some  one  below,"  pointing  to  the 
ground,  "who  keeps  him,  holds  him,  chains  him,  so  that 
he  dare  not  come.  But  soon  she  will  be  gone  ;  Thekla 
says  so." 

"Who  is  he?  Of  whom  are  you  speaking?"  asks  Mu- 
riel. Her  tone  is  so  harsh,  so  strained,  that  even  to  her- 
self it  is  hardly  recognizable. 


300  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Do  you  know  him,  then  ?  Look,  you  shall  see  him." 
She  points  to  a  distant  table,  where  Muriel,  who  is  feeling- 
sick  and  cold,  sees  a  large  cabinet  photograph  of — her  hus- 
band !  She  knows  it  well— its  fellow  lies  in  one  of  the  al- 
bums downstairs. 

"He  will  come  to-night?"  she  asks  faintly,  looking  at 
the  girl,  whose  face  is  no  whiter  than  her  own. 

"To-night,  yes.  It  is  his  festival,  see  you,  and  we  shall 
keep  it  merrily!  Listen!"  She  holds  up  one  forefinger, 
and  advances  upon  Muriel,  nay,  actually  presses  upon  her 
in  her  eagerness,  as  Muriel  instinctively  recoils  with  hor- 
ror from  her  touch.  "  If  you  wish  it,  you  shall  be  invited 
too  !  I'll  get  him  to  ask  you  ;  he  refuses  me  nothing,  but 
don't  let  Thekla  know.  Thekla,  little  cat  !  She  would 
keep  me  an  eternal  prisoner  here,  but  he  is  on  my  side, 
and  you  may  rely  upon  his  aid  in  getting  you  here."  She 
laughs  gleefully,  and  again  claps  her  hands.  "We  shall 
outwit  her,"  she  cries. 

"  We  ? " 

"Ay.  You  and  I  and  he,  and "  She  pauses  as  if 

confused,  -and  then  goes  on  :  "  You  will  have  remarked," 
she  whispers  confidentially,  "  that  she  has  grown  very 
stupid  of  late." 

"  Who  has  grown  stupid  ? " 

"Why,  Thekla.  No,"  impatiently,  "we  won't  have  her. 
You  are  new,  fresh,  strange.  He  likes  strange  faces,  and 
we  shall  coax  him  so,  eh  ?" 

"What  is  Branksmere  to  you?"  cries  Muriel  sharp- 
ly. 

"  Do  you  not  even  know  that  ?  Have  they  not  told  you  ? 
Why — my  husband!"  returns  the  stranger,  with  a  peculiar 
little  jerky  wave  of  her  hand.  A  low  cry  breaks  from 
Muriel.  She  staggers  backward,  and  puts  out  her  arms 
as  though  to  ward  off  some  advancing  horror.  "  To-night, 
to-night,  you  shall  be  made  known  to  him  !  "  goes  on  the 
girl  lightly.  "  But  Thekla  !  Why,  she  can  stay  " — point- 
ing to  a  small  door,  covered  by  a  silken  curtain,  that  up  to 
this  has  escaped  Muriel's  notice  — "  with  the  old  witch  in 
there!"  Again  the  unmeaning  smile  widens  her  lips. 
"  They'll  be  fine  company  for  each  other,  eh  ?  " 

She  laughs.  To  her  dying  day  Lady  Branksmere  never 
forgets  that  laugh.  It  rings  through  the  room,  yet  where 
is  the  mirth  in  it  ?  Oil  !  the  terrible  discordancy  of  it, 
the  dearth  of  merriment  in  the  eyes,  the  open,  gaping 
mouth  ! 


LADY  BRANKSMEKE.  301 

"  You  will  come,  you  pale  thing !  "  she  asks  eagerly, 
"and  we'll  sing  to  him,  you  and  I.  Say,  is  it — 

"  '  Beauty  sat  bathing  by  a  spring, 
Where  fairest  shades  did  hide  her. 
Hey,  nonny,  nonny  O  ! 
Hey,  nonny,  nonny?'  " 

Her  voice  now  is  slightly  raised,  her  manner  excited. 
'  And  we'll  dance,  too,"  she  cries,  catching  up  her  skirts, 
with  both  hands.  "Sing  hey!  Sing  ho!  Hey,  nonny 
nonny,  O  !  " 

She  lifts  her  feet  one  by  one  in  a  jerky  fashion  and 
sways  to  and  fro  in  a  very  ecstasy  of  delight. 

"Join  in — join  in!"  she  calls  to  Muriel,  and  sways 
more  eagerly,  and  twirls  herself  round  and  round  with  a 
terrible  speed  and  laughs  again.  A  wild  laughter  this 
time,  that  ends  in  a  wilder  shriek. 

Lady  Branksmere,  utterly  unnerved,  makes  a  movement 
toward  the  door.  Unhappily  her  flight  conveys  the  idea 
that  she  is  afraid.  The  girl  springs  after  her,  clutches  at 
her  gown,  arid  clings  to  it.  A  most  horrible  glare  has, 
come  into  her  eyes.  Muriel  shrinks  from  her,  and  as  she 
does  so,  a  large  bunch  of  crimson  ribbons,  lying  hidden 
among  the  folds  of  the  tea-green  gown  she  is  wearing, 
is  brought  conspicuously  into  view  and  strikes  upon  the 
sight  of  the  stranger,  and  then — it  is  all  over  ! 

In  a  second — with  one  spring  she  is  upon  Muriel,  her 
fingers  round  her  throat,  her  eyes  ablaze,  the  demon  mad- 
ness wide  awake  !  The  fair,  soft  childish  face  of  a  mo- 
ment since  is  now  transfigured — distorted  beyond  recogni- 
tion, and  the  lips,  purple  and  widely  parted,  are  quivering 
with  a  rage  that  knows  no  reason  ! 

Shriek  upon  shriek  rends  the  air  !  Great  heaven  !  Even 
at  this  awful  moment,  when  her  breath  is  fast  failing  her, 
beneath  the  clutch  of  the  maniac's  fingers,  and  when  those 
wild  glaring  eyes  are  gazing  into  hers,  Muriel  remembers 
that  terrible  cry,  and  once  again  imagines  herself  to  be 
upon  that  luckless  corridor  at  midnight. 

Again  and  again  that  awful  yell  arises,  growing  fiercer 
as  time  goes  on.  Not  all  the  padding  on  the  doors  can 
stifle  it  !  Closer  and  closer  the  mad-woman's  arms  clasp 
Muriel  in  that  deadly  embrace,  until  at  last,  with  a  faint 
groan,  her  victim  ceases  to  struggle,  and  with  a  sigh  her 
head  falls  backward. 

There  is  a  crash — a  groan  ! — 


302  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


CHAPTER   XLVII. 

"  Death  is  the  liberator  of  him  whom  freedom  cannot  release,  the  phy- 
sician of  him  whom  medicine  cannot  cure,  and  the  comforter  of  him  whom 
time  cannot  console  ! '' 


THE  touch  of  cold  water  upon  her  brow,  a  struggle  with 
memory,  and  Muriel  once  more  opening  her  eyes  looks 
languidly  around.  Everything  has  come  back  to  her. 
She  remembers  that  last  horrible  scene,  and  wonders 
vaguely  how  it  is  she  is  now  alive  and  in  her  own  room, 
with  Bridgman  bending  over  her.  Has  Branksmere  heard 
of  it  ?  And  if  so,  why — 

Her  eyes  meet  those  of  her  maid,  who  is  gazing  solici- 
tously at  her,  and  sinking  back  again  among  her  pillows, 
she  looks  at  her  inquiringly.  Was  it  Bridgman  who  had 
come  to  her  rescue  ?  Is  the  secret  at  last  betrayed  to  the 
household  ?  What  does  this  woman  know  ? 

"  I  fainted,  Bridgman  ? " 

"Yes,  my  lady,  but  you  are  better  now.  You  must  not 
try  to  think  yet  awhile,  but  just  lie  quiet  and  let  me  bathe 
your  head." 

"  Did — you  find  me  ?  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  my  lady,  you  must  have  been  gone  off  in  quite 
a  dead  sort  of  way  for  a  long  time  befoje  I  was  called.  I 
'card  the  bell  ringing  violently,  and  I  ran  upstairs  to  find 
you  lying  on  the  lounge  in  my  lord's  arms,  for  all  the  world 
as  if  you  were  dead.  '  Good  'evings,'  says  I,  '  what's  come 
to  my  lady  ? '  and  then  he  just  waited  to  see  how  you  were, 
my  lady,  and  when  you  gave  signs  of  coming  to  your  breath 
again,  he  had  to  run  away  to  her  ladyship,  the  Dowager, 
he  said." 

So!  He  had  thrown  her  over  upon  her  maid's  tender 
mercies.  Hour  after  hour  had  gone  by  and  he  had  not 
returned  even  to  inquire  how  she  was.  It  was  half-past 
three  then,  it  must  now  be  quite  six  o'clock,  judging  by 
the  darkness  without,  and  the  drawn  curtains  and  the 
lighted  lamps,  yet  up  to  this  he  has  studiously  absented 
himself.  On  the  very  first  opportunity  he  had  left  her, 
and  hastened  back  to ;  she  shudders.  Oh!  what  terri- 
ble link  binds  him  to  that  unfortunate  creature  ! 

"  Her  ladyship  is  worse,  then  ?  "  she  asks  faintly,  keeping 
up  the  fiction. 


LADY  BKANKSMEKE.  303 

"  Yes,  my  lady  ;  much  worse.  Not  expected  to  recover, 
I  'ear.  Her  screams  was  hawful  a  while  ago.  Quite  un- 
earthly, as  I'm  told." 

The  Dowager's  screams  !  Muriel  almost  smiles.  How 
plain  it  all  is  to  her  now.  She  shivers  nervously. 

"You  are  feeling  ill  again,  my  lady,"  says  Bridgman, 
anxiously,  who  is  very  fond  of  her.  •'  My  lord  said  you 
were  to  take  this  brandy,  if  possible,  and  said,  too,  he'd  be 
back  as  soon  as  he  could.  Do  now  try  to  take  it,  my  lady." 

"  I  want  nothing — nothing,"  returns  Muriel,  impatiently  ; 
"only  to  be  alone.  Go,  Bridgman,  go.  I  cannot  rest  with 
anyone  near  me." 

"  But,  my  lady — 

"  I  promise  I  shall  ring  for  you  if  I  feel  weaker,"  says 
Muriel  gently.  "  Now  go,  my  good  Bridgman.  Ah — 

She  starts  and  makes  an  effort  to  rise  to  her  feet,  as 
Branksmere  enters  the  room,  even  as  the  maid  leaves  it. 

Pale  as  Muriel  was  before,  she  is  now  ghastly  as  she 
confronts  her  husband.  As  for  him  there  seems  to  be  but 
one  thought  in  his  mind.  He  conies  up  to  her,  his  brows 
contracted,  and  seizing  her  by  the  arm  turns  her  to  the 
nearest  lamp. 

"You  are  safe,  unhurt,"  he  mutters,  scanning  her  with 
eyes  that  would  seek  to  rend  concealment  from  her.  So 
open,  so  terribly  real  is  his  anxiety,  that  it  should  have 
touched  her — but  she  remains  cold  and  unmoved.  She 
even  withdraws  herself  from  his  grasp  as  though  it  is  hate- 
ful to  her,  and  goes  away  from  him  a  step  or  two. 

"  She  might  have  killed  you,"  he  says  in  a  low  tone.  He 
looks  white  and  haggard  and  is  trembling  in  every  limb. 
"What  possessed  you  to  enter  that  room  ? " 

"  If  you  expect  me  to  apologize  for  my  intrusion  there, 
you  will  be  disappointed,"  returns  she,  slowly.  "  I  see  no 
reason  why  I,  as  mistress  of  this  house,  should  not  enter 
any  apartment  in  it."  Even  as  she  speaks  she  remembers 
how  by  her  own  act  some  time  since,  she  had  forfeited  all 
right  to  any  claim  upon  this  household,  and  the  hot  blood 
mounting  to  her  head  almost  choaks  her.  But  he  appears 
to  notice  nothing. 

"  When  I  found  you  there,"  he  goes  on,  "  in  her  grasp — 
Mrs.  Brooks  was  quite  unable  to  drag  her  off  you — I 
thought,  I  feared —  He  shudders  violently. 

"  I  beg  you  will  no  longer  distress  yourself  about  me," 
says  Muriel,  curtly  ;  "I  am  well,  uninjured.  All  I  now  re- 
quire," regarding  him  steadily,  "  is  an  explanation." 


304  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

He  pauses,  he  is  about  to  reply,  when — 

"You  shall  have  it,"  exclaims  a  voice  from  the  doorway, 
where  Madame  von  Thirsk  stands,  pale  and  wild,  her  arms 
folded  upon  her  breast.  "  Follow  me,"  she  says,  and  as  if 
impelled  to  obey  her  command  Muriel  moves  mechanically 
forward,  and  with  Branksmere  pursues  her  way  once  more 
to  the  ill-fated  room  that  had  been  so  full  of  danger  for 
her. 

Standing  just  inside  it,  Branksmere  pauses. 

"She  is  better?"  he  asks  anxiously,  addressing  Madame, 
who  had  preceded  them  with  a  lighted  taper  in  her  cold 
hand. 

"  Better  ?  "  She  regards  him  mournfully,  and  yet  as  one 
who  barely  understands.  "  Ay  !  she  is  better." 

"And — and  sane  ?  "  questions  Branksmere  in  a  subdued 
voice.  "  There  is  no  fear  of  a  further  shock  for—  He 

hesitates,  he  is  evidently  full  of  fears  for — Muriel.  Madame 
von  Thirsk,  with  a  cry  of  anguish,  flings  her  arms  suddenly 
•above  her  head. 

"  Sane  !  Man,  she  is  dead!  "  she  cries  in  piercing  ac- 
cents. She  darts  forward,  and  flinging  back  a  heavy  cur- 
tain lays  wide  an  alcove,  where  upon  a  bed  lies  stretched 
in  all  the  majesty  of  death,  a  pale,  still  form.  Tall  candles 
are  burning  at  the  head  and  foot  of  the  bed  ;  from  some 
flowers,  scattered  upon  the  coverlet,  a  faint,  oppressively 
s\veet  odor  is  filling  the  room.  Muriel,  spell-bound,  gazes 
at  the  silent  figure  :  It  is  the  body  of  her  who  a  few  hours 
since  had  been  so  full  of  a  giant  strength.  And  yet  now 
— how  low  she  lies !  how  motionless  !  At  last  the  poor, 
tired  brain  has  gained  its  rest,  and  that  an  eternal  one  ! 
She  is  indeed  dead  !  And  yet 

Her  mind,  now  vested  with  its  garb  of  light, 
Shines  all  the  brighter  for  its  former  toil. 

There  is  a  serenity  about  the  face  of  the  lifeless  girl,  that 
in  its  earlier  days  had  seldom  rested  there. 

Muriel  falls  upon  her  knees  and  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  Dead  !"  breathes  Branksmere.  "Great  heaven  since 
when  ?  " 

"  Almost  as  you  left  her  last  the  change  came.  She  was 
exhausted  and  quiet  then,  but  as  the  door  closed  on  you 
she  cried  aloud  to  me  to  bring  a  light.  The  room  was 
flooded  with  light  so  I  knew  what  that  meant.  In  a  little 


LADY  BRANA'SMERE.  305 

while  she  dropped  back  dead  !  Dead  3  "  She  sways  herself 
to  and  fro.  *'  Oh  I  oh  \  "  she  moans,  and  seems  as  though 
she  would  have  broken  into  loud  lamentations,  but  she 
checks  herself  violently,  and  clinching  her  hands  looks 
with  a  terrible  despair  in  her  glance  at  the  quiet  figure 
stretched  upon  the  bed  in  that  grand  complacency  that 
belongs  to  death  alone.  She  is  gazing  upon  all  that  be- 
longs to  her  upon  eartli — cold,  dull  earth  itself  now — soon 
to  Mother  Earth  to  be  returned, 

u  You  want  an  explanation,"  she  says  in  a  hard  voice, 
addressing  Lady  Branksmere,  "about  her.  Well,  you 
shall  have  it." 

"  She  was  ? — "  ventures  Muriel,  with  trembling  iips. 

"  My  sister — the  one  thing  left  me  that  I  might  love  ! — ' 
She  checks  herself.  The  emotion  dies  from  her.  "  To 
the  point,"  she  says.  "  You  are  wondering  at  her  pres- 
ence here,  you  shall  learn  how  it  was.  She,"  pointing  to 
the  dead  girl,  "was  the  mistress  of  your  husband's 
brother ! " 

A  smothered  ejaculation  breaks  from  Lord  Branksmere. 
He  makes  a  gesture  as  though  he  would  speak,  but  Madame 
suppresses  him. 

"  The  truth,  the  truth,  Branksmere — let  us  have  the  truth 
at  last,"  she  cries  wildly.  The  anguish  of  her  face  is  mis- 
erable, "  Listen  to  me,"  she  goes  on  hurriedly,  speaking 
to  Muriel ;  "  she  loved  the  late  Lord  Branksmere  and  he 
loved  her,  but  marriage  between  them  was  impossible  be- 
cause of  his  previous  marriage  with  Lady  Anne." 

Muriel  unclasps  her  hands  from  before  her  face  and 
looks  up  startled. 

"  You  know  that  he  was  killed  in  a  duel,"  goes  on  Ma- 
dame, in  a  dull  monotonous  tone.  "You  do  not  know 
who  killed  him.  It  was  my  brother,  her  brother  !  For 
our  honor's  sake  he  slew  her  lover — too  late  !  The  news 
of  his  death  came  to  her  abruptly — she — "  for  the  first  time 
Madame  falters — "was  not  very  strong  at  the  time,  and  the 
shock  destroyed  her  brain  !  " 

"Spare  yourself!  "  implores  Branksmere  in  a  whisper. 
"  Let  me  explain  the  rest." 

"  I  have  promised  Lady  Branksmere  the  recital  of  this 
merry  tale,"  returns  Madame  rigidly,  "and  I  shall  keep 
my  promise.  Hear  the  end,"  addressing  Muriel.  "  Alas  ! 
no,"  sharply,  "  the  end  you  see,  but  what  there  remains  for 
me  to  tell.  To  please  his  dying  brother,  and  to  conceal 
my  unhappy  sister  from  the  vengeance  of  our  family,  your 


306  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

husband  consented  to  bring  her  here  secretly  ;  no  one 
knew  of  her  coming,  save  Brooks,  Lord  Branksmere  and 
Madame  the  Dowager,  to  whom  the  murdered  man  was 
inexpressibly  dear.  Here  she  has  lived — unknown  ;  here 
died.  It  is  all !  Her  tale  is  finished."  She  makes  a  mel- 
ancholy motion  toward  the  bed.  "  If  in  her  life  she  ignor- 
antly  caused  you  pain,  you  can  now  rejoice  in  that  she  is 
dead  !  " 

Her  tone  is  bitterness  itself,  and  the  glance  she  cast  at 
Muriel  full  of  undiminished  hatred.  Lady  Branksmere 
shudders.  She  had  been  calm,  but  now  rising  drops  into 
a  chair  with  an  exclamation  of  horror. 

"  Oh  !  no,  not  that,"  she  breathes  faintly. 

Branksmere  regards  her  keenly. 

"  This  is  too  much  for  her,"  he  says,  speaking  rapidly  to 
Madame.  "Let  no  more  be  said  at  present.  You  can 
have  any  further  explanation  later  on." 

"  I  shall  have  no  opportunity/'  returns  she,  sullenly. 
"  Nor  is  there  anything  more  that  I  would  say.  All  now 
is  at  an  end."  Her  eyes  fasten  on  Branksmere's  hand  as 
it  rests  upon  the  back  of  his  wife's  chair.  "  Yes,"  she  re- 
peats, brokenly — "all  indeed  is  at  an  end  1 " 

"  Come  !  "  says  Branksmere,  leaning  anxiously  over 
Muriel,  whose  beautiful  face  looks  ghastly.  He  has  ap- 
parently forgotten  all  but  her.  As  in  a  dream  she  rises  to 
her  feet,  and  with  a  long,  long  sigh  moves  toward  the  door, 
he  following.  Madame  seeing  him  thus  leaving  her— -for- 
ever as  it  seems  to  her  now — without  so  much  as  one  re- 
gret, one  kindly  glance,  feels  as  though  her  very  heart  is 
being  torn  from  her  body.  She  puts  up  one  hand  as  if  to 
still  the  throbbing  of  her  throat  ;  she  makes  a  swift  move- 
ment as  if  to  overtake  him  ;  her  lissome  figure  sways  to 
and  fro,  through  the  intensity  of  its  emotion,'  and  then 
words  break  from  her. 

"  A  word,  Branksmere  !  "  she  cries,  hoarsely  ;  "one  word  ! 
It  is  my  last  !  I  leave  this  house  within  an  hour  or  two 
never  to  return  ;  spare  me  then  a  moment,  if  only  in 
memory  of  the  past !  " 

"My  dear  Thekla,  why  do  you  speak  to  me  like  this," 
asks  Lord  Branksmere,  reproachfully.  "  My  time  is  yours 
when  I  have  seen  Lady  Branksmere  to  her  room." 

Stung  by  his  openly  expressed  concern  for  his  wife, 
Madame  recovers  her  composure. 

"  Nay,"  she  says  coldly.  "  It  is  of  no  consequence.  After 
all,  what  word  is  left  me  now  except  farewell  ? " 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  307 

"Many,  I  hope,"  very  kindly. 

"  Not  one.  I  leave  this  house  to-morrow  morning,  with 
— her." 

"  So  soon  ?  "  questions  Branksmere  with  an  expressive 
glance  at  the  curtain  behind  which  that  quiet  body  rests, 
surrounded  by  light. 

"Ay,  at  once,  at  once,"  returns  she,  with  an  impatient 
gesture.  "  Oh,  to  be  gone  !  "  She  conquers  herself  pres- 
ently. "  There  must  be  no  scandal,  Branksmere,"  she 
murmurs  feverishly.  "  All  must  be  done  in  secret.  I  will 
have  no  word  spoken  against  her,  either  alive  or  dead.  I 
depend  upon  you  to  so  manage  this  last  office  for  her,  as 
you  have  managed  everything  else.  Get  us  back  to  our 
old  home  in  France,  I  do  beseech  you,  without  the  truth 
being  made  manifest." 

"You  may  rely  upon  me,"  gently. 

"Ah,  when  have  I  not  relied  upon  you  !  "  cries  she,  with 
a  swift  wild  outburst  of  grief  that  is  terrible. 

"  But  I  would  have  you  spare  yourself,"  says  Branks- 
mere tenderly.  "  That  poor  soul  " — he  bends  his  head  re- 
verently— "  her  body  must  be  removed  from  this  with  the 
daylight,  and  I  shall  go  with  it.  But  you — so  overbur- 
dened and  crushed  with  sorrow  as  you  are— you  must  stay 
on  here  for  a  while  at  least."  His  voice  is  full  of  the 
deepest  commiseration,  and  he  turns  his  glance  impulsively 
upon  Muriel,  as  though  imploring  from  her  a  friendly  word. 
Muriel,  who  is  not  ungenerous,  responds  to  it. 

"  I  entreat,  Madame,  that  you  will  remain  here,"  she 
says  hastily,  lest  the  good  impulse  fail  her.  "Why  should 
you  leave  now  ;  now,  when  your  grief  is  so  terribly  fresh 
to  you  ?" 

"  I  thank  you  " — replies  Madame  icily,  turning  to  fix  up- 
on her  a  glance  full  of  undisguised  abhorrence — "  I  thank 
you  for  the  first  kindly  word  you  have  accorded  me  since 
the  commencement  of  our  most  distasteful  acquaintance. 
Now,  on  the  eve  of  its  termination,  I  thank  you  for  it." 

Lady  Branksmere  flushes. 

"  In  spite  of  all  you  have  said,  Madame,  I  still  beg  you 
will  consider  my  house  your  home  for  the  present." 

"Your  house  could  never  be  my  home,"  returns  Madame, 
slowly. 

Lady  Branksmere,  with  a  slight  bow,  quits  the  apart- 
ment. As  she  gains  her  own  room  her  husband,  who  has 
followed  her,  checks  her  progress. 

"  I   cannot   enter  into   matters   now,"  he   says  gravely. 


308  J-.ADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"As  you  will  have  comprehended,  I  shall  have  much  to  do, 
about — the  removal  of  the  body — before  morning.  I  shall, 
of  course,  go  to  France  with  it,  and  see  it  interred.  Then 
I  shall  return,  to  give  you  any  further  explanation  that 
may  seem  necessary." 

"  When  will  you  return  ?"  asks  she  languidly,  with  down- 
cast lids. 

"  On  Saturday,  I  hope,  by  the  last  train.  I  shall  be  here 
by  ten  o'clock.  Will  that  be  too  late  for  you  to  receive 
me  ?  I  am  anxious,  now  that  the  seal  of  secrecy  has  been 
broken  and  my  promise  to  the  dead  at  an  end,  to  tell  you 
everything." 

"  It  scarcely  seems  worth  while,"  she  says,  still  more  in- 
differently. 

"To  me  it  does.     Will  you  see  me  when  I  arrive  ?" 

"Yes."  She  turns  from  him  with  slow,  tired  footsteps, 
and,  entering  the  room,  closes  the  door  behind  her.  This 
is  her  farewell  to  him.  Branksmere,  thus  unceremoniously 
left  outside  in  the  corridor,  frowns  darkly,  and,  with  an 
angry  exclamation,  strides  back  to  the  chamber  of  death. 


CHAPTER  XLVIII. 

"  He  whom  passion  rules  is  bent  to  meet  his  death." 

NEVERTHELESS,  as  lie  re-enters  the  Castle  to-night — Sat- 
urday— his  first  thought  is  for  her.  He  mounts  the  stair- 
case quickly,  and  knocking  at  her  door  responds  eagerly 
to  her  permission  to  enter.  He  can  see  at  a  glance  that 
she  is  looking  extremely  ill,  white  and  listless,  and  with 
heavy  purple  shadows  beneath  her  large  gray  eyes.  The 
slender  hands,  lying  languidly  upon  her  lap,  look  tired  and 
powerless,  the  blue  veins  standing  out  upon  the  backs  of 
them  in  thin  pale  cords.  There  is  a  suspicion  of  mental 
fatigue  about  her  whole  bearing — of  a  strain — a  painfully- 
suppressed  nervousness — very  trying,  that  is  evidently  tell- 
ing terribly  on  her  strength.  She  is  dressed  in  a  simple 
white  gown,  with  a  knot  of  ribbon  at  her  throat,  and  her 
hair  is  bound  at  the  back  in  a  loose  fashion  that  also  be- 
speaks weariness.  She  is  lying  back  in  her  chair,  and 
there  is  enough  weakness  in  her  attitude  to  appeal  to  his 
sense  of  pity  very  keenly. 


LADY  iSRANKSMERE,  309 

"You  are  ill,"  he  says  abruptly,  when  she  lias  given  him 
her  hand,  with  an  evident  effort. 

"A  little.  Yes.  But  it  is  merely  because  sleep  has 
failed  me  for  a  night  or  two." 

"  Has  Margery  been  staying  with  you? " 

"  No.  I  would  have  nobody,  though  she  wished  to  re- 
main with  me  when  here  this  morning." 

"  You  should  not  have  been  alone  after  all  you  went 
through,"  says  Branksmere,  impatiently. 

"  I  am  accustomed  to  be  alone,"  returns  she,  dryly. 

Branksmere  looks  as  though  he  would  have  answered 
this,  but  checks  himself.  There  is  a  long  silence,  and 
then,  as  though  following  out  a  train  of  thought,  he  says 
slowly  : 

"  I  waited  to  see  her  buried.  It  was  the  last  thing  I 
could  do  for  her,  whose  fortunes  were  so  unfortunately 
mixed  up  with  our  family.  Madame  von  Thirskgave  you 
an  outline  of  her  story  ;  I  am  hear  to  fill  up  the  blanks.  I 
own  that  I  have  wronged  you  in  keeping  secret  from  you 
her  existence  here,  but  my  promise  to  the  dead  bound  me 
to  silence." 

"To  the  dead  ?  " 

"  To  my  brother,"  gravely.  "  It  is  a  long  story  and  a  sad 
one.  It  is  more,"  exclaims  Branksmere,  with  a  sudden 
vehemence.  "  It  is  a  shameful  one  !  Not  so  far  as  she  is 
concerned.  I  would  have  you  understand  that.  I — I  have 
reason  to  know  that  she  never  knew  of  Anne  ;  that  he  had 
concealed  from  her  all  knowledge  of  his  marriage,  and  that 
some  ceremony  had  been  gone  through  between  him  and 
Adela  Braemar  that  had  satisfied  her,  and  betrayed  her 
into  believing  herself  his  wife.  She  never  knew  the  truth  ; 
for  that,  at  least,  I  am  grateful.  Death  seized  on  him,  and 
madness  overtook  her,-before  it  was  discovered!  " 

"  But  her  presence  here  ?  " 

"  That,  I  admit,  was  an  unpardonable  folly.  An  action 
I  have  had  reason  to  regret  many  a  day  since.  I  might 
easily  have  found  for  her  a  sheltei  in  some  other  place, 
but  just  then  I  was  confused,  horrified,  and  could  think  of 
nothing  but  the  fact  that  my  brother  had  confided  her 
to  my  care.  And  after  all,"  says  F3ranksmere,  with  deci- 
sion, "  I  don't  believe  that  I  do  regret  it,  save  in  what  it  has 
made  you  suffer;  or  rather" — correcting  himself — "be- 
cause of  the  inconvenience  it  has  caused  you." 

To  this  Muriel  makes  no  reply,  though  perhaps  he  had 
expected  one,  as  he  paused  before  going  on  again. 


3io  LADY  BRAXKSMERE. 

"  I  was  in  Munich  at  the  time  ;  my  brother  (Lord  Branks- 
mere  then)  in  Potsdam.  A  telegram  received  by  me,  ar- 
rived too  late  to  prevent  any  interference  on  my  part,  even 
supposing  it  could  have  done  any  good,  which  it  certainly 
would  not.  Using  all  the  speed  I  could,  I  only  arrived 
upon  the  fatal  field  as  the  shot  was  being  exchanged  be- 
tween Branksmere  and  Adela  Braemar's  brother,  who  had 
learned  by  chance  the  actual  truth,  and  knew  the  dishonor 
of  his  sister.  I  sprung  forward  only  to  receive  the  body 
of  my  brother  as  he  sunk  insensible  into  my  arms.  He 
was  mortally  wounded." 

"  But  not  dead  !  "  cries  Muriel  faintly. 

"Not  dead,  no!  He  lived  long  enough  to  confess  all 
to  me,  and  to  implore  me  to  succor  the  girl  he  had  so 
cruelly  wronged,  but  so  deeply  loved.  He  gained  my 
promise  not  only  to  succor  her,  but  to  shield  her  from  the 
vengeance  of  her  family,  who  had  openly  declared  their 
intention  to  take  her  life.  With  her  biood  they  would 
wipe  out  both  her  name  and  her  disgrace  from  off  the  face 
of  the  earth.  They  were  a  wild,  lawless  race,  and  it  is 
probable  they  meant  to  keep  their  word." 

Muriel's  face  has  grown  like  marble  ;  so  cold,  so  still. 
The  word  disgrace  is  ringing  through  her  brain.  That  poor 
soul!  it  had  come  to  her  most  innocently,  but  what  should 
be  said  of  one  who 

"  He  made  me  swear  I  would  befriend  her  for  his  sake, 
and  that  I  would  never  betray  her  secret.  I  gave  my  oath 
as  he  desired.  I  swore  it  to  the  dying.  Yet  there  was  a 
time  when  for  your  sake  I  would  have  broken  even  that 
solemn  covenant,  believing  he  would  not  have  had  me 
keep  it  to  the  destruction  of  my  own  happiness."  He  sighs 
heavily.  "  It  is  too  late  now,  however,  to  lament  over 
that."  He  looks  at  her  intently. 

"  Go  on,"  she  says,  with  lowered  brow  and  lips  com- 
pressed. 

"  He  died  in  my  arms  !  There  was  some  small  comfort 
for  me  in  the  thought  that  my  presence  had  soothed  him 
in  his  last  moments,  and  that  he  had  died  satisfied  that  I 
would  befriend  the  woman  he  loved.  At  the  end  lie  bade 
me  hasten  to  her  and  prepare  her  for  the  awful  news  that 
awaited  her.  But  his  voice  had  grown  thick  and  indistinct, 
and  I  suppose  I  misunderstood  what  he  said,  because  I 
went  first  to  the  wrong  house,  and  when  at  last  I  gained 
the  right  address  I  found  the  body  had  been  brought  home 
before  me,  and  that  by  some  unlucky  chance  the  poor  girl 


LADY  BRAffKSMERB.  311 

had  met  the  bearers  face  to  face,  and  that,  in  fact,  the  dead 
man — her  lover — her  husband,  as  she  believed — had  been 
laid  almost  at  her  feet." 

Lady  Branksmere  raises  both  hands  to  the  side  of  her 
head,  as  though  to  shut  out  the  horrible  scene,  but  no 
word  escapes  her. 

"  I  shall  never  forget  that  moment  :  Adela  in  her  white 
gown  ;  the  dead  man  covered  with  blood  ;  the  brilliant 
sunshine  ;  the  silence  of  the  bearers,  and  through  all  the 
gay,  terrible  laughter  of  some  children  playing  in  the  gar- 
den below.  The  girl  said  nothing,  but  she  went  slowly  up 
to  him,  and  bending  down  laid  her  cold  fingers  on  his 
colder  brow.  'Why,  how  is  this,  sweetheart  ?'  she  said. 
It  was  an  odd  little  speech,  wasn't  it?  There  was  really 
nothing  in  it,  and  yet  I  shall  never  forget  it.  I  can  hear  it 
always.  It  thrilled  through  the  room.  The  very  men 
ceased  to  breathe  as  they  listened.  It  was  something  in 
her  voice,  her  manner,  the  cruel  stillness  of  her.  She 
seemed  to  comprehend  so  poorly,  and  yet  her  comprehen- 
sion was  so  complete — so  fearful  in  its  consequences  !  As 
she  leaned  over  him  some  drops  of  his  life  blood,  warm 
and  red,  fell  upon  her  white  gown.  She  burst  out  laugh- 
ing then,  and  called  to  us  to  see  how  pretty  they  were.  Jt 
was  an  awful  scene." 

His  voice  has  sunk  very  low  ;  it  now  ceases  altogether. 
He  seems  to  be  falling  into  a  sort  of  revery,  when  a  ges- 
ture from  Muriel  brings  him  back  to  the  present. 

"  There  is  more  ?  "  she  questions,  feverishly. 

"  You  shall  hear  it."  He  turns  away  abruptly,  and  going 
to  the  window  pushes  back  the  curtains,  and  gazes  out  into 
the  blackness  of  the  night  beyond.  "  That  night  her  child 
was  born  !  " 

Muriel,  with  a  sharp  exclamation,  lets  her  Ian  slip  from 
her  to  the  ground. 

"That  night,  too,  it  died — happily!  The  mother's  mind 
died  with  it,  but  her  body  lived.  Poor  girl,  her  heart  was 
broken  ;  it  was  merciful  that  memory  was  taken  from  her." 

"  Was  there  no  return  ?     No  vague  remembrance  ?  " 

"  None.  After  awhile  strange  fancies  grew  within  her. 
I  bore  a  strong  resemblance  to  my  brother,  and  soon  she 
grew  to  connect  me  with  him  in  some  dull  way,  and  later 
on  believed  me  to  be  indeed  the  Branksmere  she  had  known 
and  loved.  I  alone  could  console  her  in  her  bursts  of  un- 
meaning grief.  I  alone  could  control  her  by  a  word — a 
look — when  she  fell  a  prey  to  the  violence  that  at  times 


3I2  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

overcame  her.  That  evening,  when  you  ventured  into  her 
room,  had  they  not  called  me  hastily,  I  do  not  know  what 
would  have  been  the  result.  She  was  more  violent  then 
than  I  had  ever  seen  her." 

"  It  was  the  fact  of  my  being  a  stranger " 

"  No.  It  was  the  red  ribbons  on  your  gown.  Ever  since 
that  fatal  morning  when  the  blood  of  her  lover  dyed  her 
dress,  it  has  been  impossible  to  let  her  see  anything  even 
approaching  that  color.  The  demon  was  raging  within 
her  when  I  entered,  her  hands  were  on  your  throat.  Mrs. 
Brooks,  with  all  her  strength,  could  not  sway  her  one  inch 
from  you.  But  when  she  saw  me  she  grew  calmer  at  once, 
and  rose  to  her  feet  and  came  to  me  as  a  child  might  come 
who  knew  itself  in  some  disgrace,  yet  knew  itself  be- 
loved." 

"  Was  Mrs.  Brooks  the  only  one  there  ?  I  have  a  con- 
fused idea  that "  Lady  Branksmere  hesitates  and 

frowns  slightly,  as  one  might  to  whom  remembrance  is 
difficult. 

"A  correct  one.  Yes,  Madame  von  Thirsk  was  there. 
It  appears  she  had  arrived  on  the  scene  before  Mrs.  Brooks 
knew  anything  of  the  matter,  but  was  either  too  horrified 
or  too  frightened  to  give  the  alarm.  Mrs.  Brooks  provi- 
dentially came  in  with  a  message  from  my  grandmother, 
or  else  all  Thekla's  influence  might  have  been  powerless 
to  save  you." 

He  brushes  his  hand  across  his  forehead,  and  draws  his 
breath  heavily,  but  Muriel  is  too  lost  in  a  new  thought  to 
heed  him.  So !  Madame  had  been  there,  and  had  been 
too  frightened  to  call  for  assistance  1  Too  horrified  to  try 
to  save  her  from  a  cruel  death  1  Death  !  Ah,  there  lay  the 
charm  of  it.  To  see  her  indeed  dead,  Madame  would  will- 
ingly have  imperilled  her  very  soul !  A  sensation  of  sick- 
ness creeps  over  Muriel,  and  compels  her  to  lean  back  in 
her  chair  and  gasp  for  breath.  Oh,  the  blessedness  of  the 
relief  that  follows  on  the  recollection  that  that  murderess 
has  left  the  house.  She  had  stood  by,  waiting  for  the  life 
to  leave  her  ;  had  perhaps  excited  the  wretched  maniac  ; 
had  gloated  in  the  thought  that  soon  her  enemy  would  be 
beyond  recall  ;  had  watched  her  struggles  and  laughed  at 
her  efforts  to  free  herself.  Oh  ! 

A  wild  cry  breaks  from  her.  She  starts  to  her  feet,  and 
throws  out  her  arms  as  if  to  ward  off  some  fearful  thing. 

"What  is  it?"  exclaims  Branksmere,  anxiously. 

"  Nothing  !    Nothing  !  "    She  has  subsided  into  her  chair 


LADY  BRAXKSMF.RE.  313 

again,  and  has  covered  her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Only 
some  horrible  thought  !  " 

"You  have  listened  too  long  to  such  an  unhappy  story," 
declares  Branksmere.  "  Some  other  time  I  can  finish — 

"No  ;  let  it  be  ended  now  forever.  There  is  one  thing 
I  want  to  know.  She  spoke  of  flowers — a  festival — 

"  It  was  the  anniversary  of  Arthur's  birthday.  She  always 
lemembered  that,  whatever  else  might  be  forgotten.  For 
months  before  she  would  question  us  as  to  the  exact  day — 
waiting  and  longing  to  do  honor  to  it.  He  had  a  passion 
for  flowers,  and  to  please  him  she  would  have  the  apart- 
ments that  belonged  to  her  decorated  with  them  on  that 
and  on  their  wedding-day.  Poor  thing !  It  was  her  de- 
light to  keep  their  rooms  bright  with  them  in  the  old  days 
in  Hungary.  She  was  very  gentle  in  her  calm  days,  but 
when  excited  it  was  very  difficult  to  manage  her.  She  was 
indeed  a  great  responsibility." 

"You  had  not  to  undertake  it  alone,  however.  You  had 
Madame  to  help  you." 

"Yes.  That  was  fortunate,"  replies  he,  simply.  "She 
was  devoted  to  Adela,  and  the  poor  afflicted  girl  clung  to 
her  in  her  more  lucid  moments.  Thekla  alone,  and 
Brooks,  knew  of  her  being  here.  And  Madame's  avowed 
affection  for  my  grandmother  made  a  good  pretext  for 
her  continued  residence  here — an  affection  amply  returned 
by  the  Dowager.  However,  her  presence  made  it  impos- 
sible for  me  to  spend  much  time  at  home.  Nor  did  I  care 
to  live  here  until — I  met  you."  A  mournful  expression 
has  come  into  his  eyes.  "  You  asked  me  once  if  I  had 
ever  seen  Madame's  rooms,  and  I  told  you  no.  That  was 
the  truth.  But  I  do  not  blame  you  for  your  disbelief. 
Evidence  was  very  strong  against  me.  How  could  I  ex- 
plain that  the  rooms  belonged  to  Adela,  that  Madame's 
were  on  the  other  side  of  that  wing  ?  You  little  knew  when 
you  so  harshly  condemned  me  how  sad  a  task  was  mine  ; 
to  care  for,  to  console,  to  govern  that  poor  mad  creature." 

Lady  Branksmere  presses  her  hand  against  her  throat 
in  a  convulsive  way,  as  if  suffocating. 

"  It  was  easy  enough  to  manage  her  when  first  she  came 
here — at  least  so  they  told  me.  But  lately  the  attacks  of 
madness  had  grown  more  frequent,  and  her  screams  were 
horrible.  They  were  unheard  by  the  servants,  fortunately, 
who  all  believe  that  corridor  haunted  and  never  enter  it. 
But  you  heard  her  ?  That  night  when  I  found  your 
bracelet " 


3 14  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

He  waits  expectantly  for  a  word  from  her,  but  none 
conies.  Her  back  is  turned  to  him,  or  he  might  perhaps 
have  noticed  the  growing  pallor  on  her  face. 

"  I  would  have  spoken  " — he  goes  on  in  a  low  voice — "  I 
should  have  betrayed  all  then  — but  you  gave  me  no  op- 
portunity— you  would  not  hear  me." 

"  It  was  too  late  ! "  Her  voice  is  so  faint  as  to  be  al- 
most indistinct ;  with  difficulty  she  conquers  the  sensation 
that  threatens  to  sink  her  into  insensibility.  "  Was  it  for 
your  oath's  sake  you  kept  silent  all  that  time  ?  " 

"  For  that— and  for  one  other  powerful  reason.  There 
was  Anne  !  His  wife  !  She  knew  nothing  ;  she  never  so 
much  as  dreamed  of  her  husband's  treachery.  He  and  she 
were  not,  perhaps,  altogether  suited  to  each  other.  It  was 
a  marriage  arranged  by  the  two  families — hers  and  ours  ; 
and  no  one  fora  moment  pretended  to  believe  it  was  a  love 
match.  But  outwardly  they  got  on  as  well  as  the  world 
could  expect,  and  at  least  she  never  knew  of  a  rival,  never 
heard  of  a  reason  why  his  memory  should  not  be  respected 
by  her.  His  death  helped  to  cover  a  multitude  of  faults 
with  her,  and  I  fear  she  has  often  thought  me  cold  when 
I  have  not  ardently  responded  to  her  kindly  words  spoken 
in  praise  of  his  memory.  How  could  I  destroy  her  faith  ? 
How  lay  bare  his  infidelity  to  her?  How  could  I  dare  to 
wound  that  gentle  heart?  Was.  /  to  be  the  one  to  teach 
her  to  despise  my  brother  ?  " 

He  has  grown  agitated,  and  ceases  somewhat  abruptly. 
Muriel,  motionless,  staring  before  her  with  wide  eyes  is 
lost  in  a  labyrinth  of  miserable  suspicion.  That  story  he 
has  just  revealed  to — was  it  purposely  told  ?  What  has 
this  vile  tale  to  do  with  her  that  it  so  clings  to  her  brain  ? 
A  woman  shamed — a  woman  lost  !  And  yet  this  poor  soul 
was  more  innocent  than  she — Muriel — who  of  her  own  free 
will  would  have  accepted  the  shame  and  cut  herself  adrift 
from  all  tilings  good.  She  interlaces  her  fingers  tightly 
and  rising  to  her  feet — heavily — because  of  the  dull 
strange  lethargy  that  is  fast  conquering  her,  turns  her  gaze 
on  Branksmere. 

"  I  have  wronged  you,"  she  cries  feverishly — "  beyond 
forgiveness!  That  I  know  now!  While  you — you — !  Think, 
remember  well,  what  it  is  I  should  be  now  but  for  you  !  A 
thing  lost,  degraded."  She  is  growing  terribly  excited,  and 
her  eyes  are  like  large  coals  of  fire  in  her  white  face.  "  I 
would  have  you  remember  ivell,"  she  repeats  again.  "  And 
that  it  is  of  your  wife  such  words  may  be  used.  Your 


LADY  BRANKSMERF..  315 

wife,  Branksmerc.  Think  of  it !  That  should  make  you 
harder." 

She  has  broken  into  dry  sobs,  and  has  turned  aside  to 
hide  her  face  upon  the  arm  that  is  leaning  against  the 
mantel-shelf. 

"  Hush  !  "  exclaims  Branksmere  sternly,  but  very  anx- 
iously, as  he  marks  this  growing  agitation  that  is  overpow- 
ering her.  He  has  come  within  the  light  of  the  lamp  near- 
est to  her,  and  now  seeing  her  face,  it  horrifies  him.  Her 
lips  are  white,  her  eyes  are  as  those  of  the  dead.  "  Muriel 
— what  is  it?"  he  cries  aloud.  But  even  as  he  speaks  she 
throws  out  her  arms  convulsively,  sways  heavily  to  and  fro 
and  falls  senseless  to  the  ground. 


CHAPTER    XLIX. 

My  melancholy  haunts  me  everywhere, 

And  not  one  kindly  gleam  pierces  the  gloom 

Of  my  dark  thoughts,  to  give  a  glimpse  of  comfort. 

THE  world  is  three  weeks  older  to-day,  and  the  events  of 
that  past  night  seem  to  have  happened  quite  a  long  while 
ago.  Three  weeks,  and  as  yet  suspense  and  evil  anticipa- 
tion are  not  at  an  end.  They  had  lifted  her  from  where 
she  fell  at  Branksmere's  feet,  and  carried  her  to  her  bed, 
and  Margery  and  Mrs.  Billy  had  watched  over  her  all 
through  that  long  night  of  insensibility  until  the  dawn 
came,  and  with  it  a  glimmer  of  consciousness  that  died 
almost  as  it  was  born. 

In  twenty-four  hours  she  was  in  a  raging  fever.  Her 
brain  was  affected,  and  it  seemed  to  those  closely  investi- 
gating the  case — the  great  men  from  the  town  and  the  lit- 
tle men  from  the  country  round — that  small,  indeed,  was 
the  hope  that  could  be  entertained. 

All  her  lovely  hair  was  shorn  away.  Her  dry,  parched 
lips  made  feverish  the  beholder.  Her  large  eyes  a-flame 
with  the  fire  that  was  inwardly  consuming  her,  turned  to 
each  one  a  vacant  glance,  and  from  night  to  morn,  and 
morn  to  night,  she  rolled  her  tired  head  unceasingly  from 
side  to  side,  calling  always,  always  upon — Mrs.  Billy ! 

No  other  being  would  satisfy  her.  Not  even  Margery, 
with  her  cool,  sweet  touch  and  her  loving  tenderness.  It 
was  ever  for  the  sister,  who  was  a  stranger  to  her,  that  she 


3i6  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

called.  Perhaps — for  who  can  read  the  workings  of  a 
mind  diseased  ? — perhaps  through  all  the  sad  riot  of  the 
maddening  fever  that  played  such  havoc  with  her  brain, 
she  remembered  that  Mrs.  Billy  had  been  the  one  most  in- 
strumental in  saving  her  from  the  miserable  path  into 
which  a  wild  desire  for  revenge  would  have  turned  her  ; 
that  she  had  been  the  one  to  make  it  impossible  for  her 
to  step  into  the  outer  darkness. 

At  times  she  would  change  her  cry,  and  ask  irritably  for 
some  members  of  her  former  home,  but  after  Mrs.  Billy, 
the  person  she  most  frequently  desired,  was  Tommy  Paulyn. 
If  they  had  had  the  heart  for  laughter  then,  this  would 
have  amused  them,  but  all  was  too  sad,  too  terrible,  with 
the  shadow  of  death  hanging  over  the  house  that  might 
perhaps  never  again  be  ruled  by  its  mistress.  At  such 
times  as  when  she  called  upon  him,  Tommy  was  always 
forthcoming,  and  would  sit  beside  her  for  hours  together, 
with  her  poor,  wasted  hand  that  was  too  much  bone  now 
for  the  skin,  and  too  transparent  to  be  beautiful,  held 
gently  between  both  his  own.  His  cousins  learned  to  be 
very  fond  of  him  at  this  time,  and  one  cousin  who  shared 
his  watches  with  him  learned  something  more — the  greatest 
knowledge  of  all. 

For  Branksmere,  his  wife  never  asked.  No  faintest 
mention  of  him  crossed  her  lips.  Save  for  her  desire  for 
Mrs.  Billy,  her  memory  seemed  to  have  gone  back  entirely 
to  her  earlier  days,  before  the  thought  of  other  love  than 
the  home  one,  had  entered  her  heart.  She  babbled  of  lit- 
tle trivial  scenes  and  girlish  gayeties  that  they  had  imagined 
long  since  forgotten  by  her  ;  and  would  talk  to,  and  scold, 
and  laugh  at  the  twins  as  energetically  as  though  they 
were  really  in  her  presence,  and  she  back  once  more  in 
the  old  schoolroom  with  them.  But  of  Branksmere, 
nothing ! 

He  would  steal  in  and  out  of  her  room  all  day  long,  and 
very  often  during  the  night,  and  stand  looking  down  upon 
her,  in  silence,  and  apparently  without  emotion.  The  first 
day  he  had  seen  Tommy  Paulyn  sitting  with  her  hand  in 
his,  he  had  changed  color  slightly,  and  had  left  the  room 
somewhat  abruptly.  But  afterward  he  showed  no  sign  of 
having  been  surprised  or  offended,  and  was  indeed  more 
attentive  to  Paulyn,  and  friendlier  with  him  than  he  had 
ever  been  before.  The  wrapt  way  in  which  he  would 
stand  listening  to  the  idle  words  that  fell  from  the  parched 
lips,  led  Margery  into  the  belief  that  he  was  hoping  for 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  317 

some  word  that  might  apply  to  himself,  and  it  grieved  and 
distressed  her  beyond  measure  that  such  word  never  came. 
But  perhaps  had  she  known  it,  Branksmere's  anxiety  had 
been  of  another  order,  and  the  pain  he  may  have  felt  at 
finding  himself  ignored  in  her  ravings,  had  been  conquered, 
by  the  passionate  relief  he  knew  in  finding  that  the  name 
most  hated  by  him  on  earth  was  also  absent  from  her  lips. 

The  loss  of  hope  is  cruel  !  For  two  whole  days  it  slipped 
from  them,  and  even  now,  to-day,  when  a  little  change  for 
the  better  has  been  noticed  and  made  much  of,  still  they 
start  and  pale,  and  leel  their  hearts  stop  beating  whenever 
a  door  is  opened  suddenly,  believing  it  to  be  a  message 
from  one  of  the  doctors  desiring  them  to  prepare  for  the 
last  sad  change  of  all. 

The  weather,  too,  is  dull  and  mournful,  the  rain  drips 
from  the  eaves,  and  a  sighing  of  the  winds  in  the  pine  av- 
enue makes  itself  felt.  All  through  the  sullen  afternoon 
the  misty  snowflakes  melt  upon  the  window  panes,  and  the 
rushing  breeze  hurls  itself  against  the  casements  in  the 
turret  chamber,  where  Muriel  lies  half  slain  by  the  giant 
enemy  that  had  attacked  her.  The  sounds  of  Nature  enter 
the  sick  room,  in  spite  of  all  efforts  to  defeat  them,  and 
rouse  the  tired  patient  to  a  sense  of  life. 

Muriel,  wide-eyed  but  silent,  is  lying  in  a  weak  prostra- 
tion upon  her  bed,  one  hand,  damp  and  nerveless,  toying 
feebly  with  the  sheet.  Upon  the  hearth-rug  Margery  and 
Mrs.  Billy  are  conversing  in  low  tones.  The  fire  is  burn- 
ing brightly,  sending  forth  little  cheerful  noises  with  a  vi- 
vacity hardly  to  be  equalled. 

"  Yes,  she  is  better,  quite  better,"  says  Mrs.  Billy  sud- 
denly, addressing  a  tall  figure  standing  in  the  doorway. 
"I  guess  she's  mending  at  long  last." 

Branksmere  with  a  slow  step  crosses  the  room,  and,  bend- 
ing down,  looks  at  the  pale  occupant  of  the  bed.  They 
are  so  accustomed  to  his  ceaseless  comings  and  goings 
that  the  two  on  the  hearth-rug  continue  their  conversation 
as  though  he  had  never  entered. 

Looking,  he  can  see  for  himself  there  is  more  of  a  steady 
light  in  the  gray  eyes  than  has  been  there  for  many  a  day. 
She  half  looks  at  him,  then  lets  her  lids  fall  heavily  over 
the  orbs  beneath.  Branksmere  is  fast  losing  himself  in 
some  gloomy  reverie,  when  the  sound  of  her  weak  voice 
coming  to  him  across  his  dreamings,  rouses  him  at  once 
into  sudden  nervous  life.  He  stoops  over  her.  x 

"What  is  it  I  hear  ?  Birds?"  she  asks  feebly. 


3i8  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

in  truth  some  melancholy  robins  have  stationed  them- 
selves under  the  drooping  foliage  that  has  covered  the  win- 
dow sill  outside,  and  their  twitterings  have  apparently 
entered  into  her  ear. 

"Who  feeds  them  now  ?"  she  asks  in  that  strange  slow 
way  that  a  sickness  nigh  unto  death  has  taught  her.  Her 
eyes — grown  frightfully  large,  are  fixed  on  Branksmere 
expectantly.  Then  all  at  once  her  glance  grows  troubled, 
and  her  breath  comes  and  goes  with  a  cruel  haste  and 
labor. 

"Oh  !  how  it  all  comes  back  !  "  she  cries  faintly.  Tears 
rise  and  fall  over  her  cheeks.  With  a  feeble  effort  she 
covers  her  face.  The  warm  stinging  drops  wrung  from 
her  soul  trickle  down  through  her  emaciated  fingers,  and 
lose  themselves  among  the  laces  of  her  night-dress. 

"Try  to  keep  your  mind  from  dwelling  upon  anything 
that  worries  you,"  entreats  Branksmere  hurriedly,  with  all 
the  sound  but  useless  advice  of  a  man,  given  at  such  a  time. 
"Try  to  forget — all." 

"There  is  one  thing  I  cannot  remember,"  breathes  she 
feebly.  "  Do  you  know  ?  Where  is  she  ? — the  woman  who 
wanted  to  murder  me  ?  " 

Branksmere,  troubled,  takes  her  hand,  and  holds  it  fast. 

"  Try  to  forget  her,"  he  says,  believing  she  wanders,  and 
fearing  to  let  her  mind  revert  to  the  stricken  Adela. 
Muriel  grows  restless. 

"  I  cannot !  "  The  words  fall  from  her  in  a  slow  whisper 
one  by  one.  "She  came  into  the  room  while  that  poor 
girl  was  trying  to  injure  me,  and  shq  urged  her  with  a 
laugh  to  kill  me.  I  can  see  her  now.  I  see  her  always." 

"  She  ?  Who  ? "  He  is  somewhat  struck  by  the  extreme 
lucidity  of  her  manner. 

"  Madame  von  Thirsk  ! "  She  turns  her  head  with  dif- 
ficulty upon  her  pillow  so  as  to  face  him,  and  speaks  in  a 
low  jerky  fashion,  but  with  strange  earnestness.  Branks- 
mere grows  deadly  pale  as  he  hears  the  name  of  Madame. 
He  had  known  truly  of  the  enmity  she  bore  his  wife,  he 
knew,  too,  of  the  subdued  but  savage  temper  she  had  in- 
herited, but  that  she  should  have  longed  for  Muriel's  death 
— It  was  too  horrible  for  belief.  Surely  Muriel  raves — 
and  yet,  the  clear  eye,  the  steady  if  weakly  accents,  the 
soul  that  looks  at  him  through  every  feature — is  this  lav- 
ing? 

"I  saw  her,"  whispers  Muriel,  looking  beyond  him,  as 
though  addressing  herself  rather  than  him.  "  She  stood 


LADY  BRA.VK'SirKRE.  319 

just  there,  as  it  were.  I  know  the  very  spot  ;  and  she 
laughed  and  told  that  poor  mad  creature  to  haste  and 
finish  her  work,  calling  out  that  I  was  an  enemy  of  Ar- 
thur's !  Were  they  both  mad  ?  I  had  forgotten  it  all,  but 
now  it  comes  back  to  me."  She  stares  with  widening  eyes 
over  his  shoulder,  as  though  some  vision  beyond  is  dis- 
playing itself  to  her.  "Ah,  keep  her  away!"  she  cries 
suddenly,  Avith  a  return  of  the  old  wildness,  clutching  con- 
vulsively at  the  satin  coverlet. 

"  She  shall  never  again  enter  these  doors — never,  never," 
says  Branksmere  hurriedly,  who  is  looking  ghastly.  He 
stoops  to  reassure  her  more  entirely,  but  she  has  sunk  back 
among  her  pillows  into  a  quiescent  state  that  is  half  sleep, 
half  insensibility.  She  seems  tired  and  worn,  but  in  a  min- 
ute or  two  she  opens  her  eyes  again  and  fixes  them  on  him 
as  though  surprised. 

"  What  are  you  doing  here  ?  "  she  a^ks,  irritably. 

"  I  came  to  see  how  you  were  going  on." 

"You  are  always  coming.  I  have  felt  it  through  all. 
But  why  do  you  come  nowl  There  is  nothing  more  to  ex- 
pect. I  am  getting  well.  Other  people  can  die  ;  /can't." 

The  cruel  innuendo  he  passes  over  in  silence. 

"That  is  good  news,"  he  says;  "yes,  I  think  you  are 
better." 

"You  do  your  part  admirably,"  returns  she,  with  a  weak 
attempt  at  scorn.  "  But  you  have  been  on  duty  long 
enough.  I  wish  now,"  her  voice  growing  feebler,  "you 
would  cease  to  consider  all  this  attention  so  necessary." 

She  turns  from  him  as  well  as  her  poor  weak  strength 
will  permit  her,  and  he,  deeply  offended,  steps  into  the 
background.  He  had  loved  her.  How  he  had  loved  her ! 
With  all  his  heart  he  had  given  his  heart  to  her,  and  now 
— now  !  There  had  been  no  half  measures,  no  reserva- 
tions, his  very  whole  soul  had  been  given  to  her  for  this  ! 
A  pity  for  himself — for  the  miserable  being  so  cruelly  de- 
frauded by  Fate  of  that  for  which  he  had  paid  so  heavy  a 
price,  possesses  him  at  this  moment,  as  he  stands  motion- 
less, despairing,  his  eyes  on  the  ground. 

He  had  borne  scorn,  contempt,  hatred  ;  nay,  he  had  for- 
given her  that,  for  which  most  men  would  have  spurned 
her,  and  yet — 

"Are  you  there?"  Her  voice,  faint  and  impatient, 
comes  to  him  and  rouses  him  from  his  miserable  thoughts. 
.Thinking  she  is  calling  for  one  of  those  who  usually  sit  be- 
side her,  he  says  gently  : 


320 


LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


"  Is  it  Mrs,  Daryl  you  want  ? " 

"No." 

"  Is  it— Paulyn  ? " 

"No." 

"Who  is  it,  then  ?" 

"Nobody,"  pettishly.  She  frowns,  and  then  tears  born 
of  weakness  spring  to  her  eyes.  "  I  am  so  thirsty,"  she 
moans  miserably,  "and  nobody  will  give  me  anything  to 
drink.  Nobody  attends  to  me.  Nobody  cares  whether  I 
live  or  die." 

This  most  unjust  accusation  once  past  her  lips,  touches 
her  own  sense  of  justice  so  keenly,  that  the  poor  thing,  re- 
penting of  her  wayward  speech,  falls  a-crying  most  bitterly. 
She  makes  a  feeble  effort  to  push  away  the  cooling  drink 
he  holds  to  her  lips,  but  afterward,  overcome  by  the  crav- 
ing for  liquid  of  some  sort  to  cool  her  burning  throat,  she 
drinks  feverishly  of  that  he  gives  her. 

She  leans  back  exhausted  ;  and  presently  begins  to  move 
her  head  restlessly  from  side  to  side. 

"  I  am  so  hot — so  hot,"  she  murmurs.  Leaning  over  her 
he  lifts  the  pillow  on  which  she  is  lying  with  the  hope  of 
rendering  her  more  comfortable.  To  do  this  he  has  to  pass 
his  arm  beneath  her  neck,  and  before  he  can  remove  it  she 
has  fallen  back  in  the  exhausted  sudden  slumber  of  one 
recovering  from  a  wasting  illness.  Seeing  she  does  not 
stir,  he,  too,  remains  motionless,  and  presently  he  sees  she 
is  indeed  asleep.  Afraid  to  move  lest  he  shall  wake  her, 
he  kneels  beside  the  bed,  and  tries  to  believe  there  is  no 
gladness  for  him  in  the  knowledge  that  her  head  is  resting 
so  near  his  heart. 

Margery  and  Mrs.  Billy  at  an  early  stage  of  the  proceed- 
ings had  deliberately  turned  their  backs  upon  the  bed,  so 
that  for  quite  an  hour  Brankstnere  kneels  there  watching 
his  wife's  slumbers  undisturbed.  Once  indeed  Mrs.  Billy 
had  come  up  to  him  to  whisper  some  unnecessary  caution, 
but  in  reality  to  slip  a  cushion  beneath  his  knees,  and  after 
that  she  and  Margery  had  gone  away,  leaving  him  alone 
with  Muriel.  When  they  return  it  is  to  find,  he  too,  has 
fallen  asleep.  His  head  is  resting  on  the  pillow.  Upon 
his  dark  lashes  lie  the  traces  of  tears. 


LADY  BRANXSMERE.  321 

CHAPTER   L. 

I've  wronged  thce  much,  and  Heaven  has  well  avenged  : 


Will  no  remorse,  will  no  decay, 
O  memory,  soothe  thee  into  peace. 


" NOT  heard  it?"  says  Lord  Primrose,  "why  bless  me, 
I  thought  all  the  world  knew  it  now.  It's  to  come  off  in 
the  spring,  and  they  are  both  as  jolly  as  sand  boys.  You'd 
hardly  know  Halkett,  he  looks  so  altogether  gay,  and  Mrs. 
Amyot  has  learned  to  blush.  They  were  so  long  making 
up  their  minds  that — no — no  sugar  thanks — not  a  scrap — 
I'm  growing  outrageously  fat  as  it  is — that  people  began 
to  regard  them  as  a  sham.  But  after  all,  you  see,  they 
meant  it.  It  will  be  the  marriage  of  the  season." 

Lady  Anne  Branksmere  had  come  down  to  the  Castle 
on  the  first  word  of  Muriel's  illness,  to  help  Mrs.  Billy 
and  Margery  in  the  nursing  of  her  ;  Muriel  having  shown 
a  strange  impatience  with  the  excellent  hired  nurse  for- 
warded from  town  by  one  of  the  doctors. 

To  have  Lady  Anne  at  the  Castle  means  to  have  Lord 
Primrose  too  ;  his  residence  being  situated  on  the  borders 
of  the  neighboring  county,  about  six  miles  from  Branks- 
mere. Certainly  he  had  been  attentive  before  her  arrival, 
had  been  most  assiduous  in  his  inquiries  as  to  the  way 
Lady  Branksmere  was  going  on,  but  when  Lady  Anne  ar- 
rived upon  the  stage  there  was  no  knowing  how  often  the 
ugly,  pleasant,  good-humored  little  man  would  not  appear 
during  the  day.  As  regular  as  clockwork  he  dropped  in 
in  the  afternoon — once  Lady  Branksmere  wTas  pronounced 
out  of  danger — presumably  to  ask  for  her,  but  in  reality  to 
get  his  tea  from  Lady  Anne's  fair,  plump  hands,  and  to 
sun  himself  in  her  kindly  smiles. 

To-day  he  is  smiled  upon,  not  only  by  her,  but  by  Mu- 
riel, who  is  now  brought  downstairs  to  the  library  every 
afternoon  by  Tommy  Paulyn  and  Lady  Anne,  whose  fine 
arms  make  light  of  such  a  burden. 

"You  didn't  knowT,  perhaps  !"  goes  on  Lord  Primrose, 
"  that  Mrs.  Amyot  is  staying  with  us  at  present.  The  Ma- 
ter is  fond  of  that  frivolous  little  person.  So'm  I,  by  the 
way.  Lots  of  good  in  her,  in  my  opinion." 


322  LADY  BRANKSMERE, 

"  You  would  have  made  a  bad  judge,"  says  Muriel,  smil- 
ing faintly.  "  Good  in  everything,  is  what  you  see." 

"Don't  make  him  vainer  than  he  is,"  entreats  Lady 
Anne,  with  the  purely  friendly  smile  that  always  charms 
and  exasperates  him.  "  By  the  bye,  where  is  Mrs.  Amyot's 
shadow — Mrs.  Vyner,  I  mean." 

"  Oddly  enough,  in  the  neighborhood  too  ;  or  at  least 
will  be  to-morrow.  I  met  the  Adairs,  who  told  me  she 
was  coming  to  them  for  a  few  weeks." 

"  She's  grown  awfully  tired  of  the  old  Colonel,  I  hear," 
says  the  Hon.  Tommy,  who  happens  to  be  present. 

"  Yes,  by  Jove.  It  appears  she  won't  take  him  anywhere 
with  her  now.  Ever  since  he  fell  in  for  the  Bellair  title 
she's  led  him  no  end  of  a  life." 

"  One  would  think  she  might  be  grateful  for  that  small 
mercy." 

"  She  isn't,  though.  She  has  got  the  whip-hand  over 
him  in  some  unaccountable  fashion,  and  she  uses  it  un- 
sparingly. She  is  worse  to  him  than  a  dozen  of  those  na- 
tive regiments  he  used  to  storm  about." 

"Naturally,"  says  Paulyn,  "as  he  had  the  whip-hand 
over  them,  and  used  it  unsparingly,  too,  as  I  have  heard. 
Then  he  governed  ;  now  he  is  governed." 

"  Poor  old  Colonel,"  laughs  Lady  Anne. 

"Not  at  all;  not  at  all.  If,  as  they  say,  'variety  is 
charming,'  he  should  now  be  supremely  happy.  By  the 
bye,  my  mother  and  Mrs.  Amyot,  and  Halkett,  and  in  fact 
the  lot  of  'em,  want  to  come  over  to  see  you,  Lady  Branks- 
mere,  as  soon  as  you  can  permit  it,  or  feel  strong  enough." 

"  I  am  strong  enough  this  moment.  I  shall  be  de- 
lighted," says  Muriel.  "Tell  your  mother  so,  with  my 
love." 

"  But  really — so  many — you  mustn't  overdo  it,  you 
know,"  protests  Primrose. 

"  It  will  do  her  good,"  decides  Lady  Anne,  gayly. 

After  a  little  bit  Primrose  fades  away,  by  imperceptible 
degrees,  following  Lady  Anne's  footsteps,  who  moves 
gracefully  from  the  Bohemian  vases  to  the  conservatory 
and  back  again,  and  finally  coming  to  a  standstill  in  the 
flowers'  pretty  home  brings  him  to  a  resting  point  too. 
M*argery  and  Tommy  Paulyn  have  gone  in  search  of  the 
twins  who  have  been  absent  sufficiently  long  to  make  every- 
one sure  that  now  at  last  they  have  come  to  the  untimely 
end  they  are  always  courting,  and  Muriel  left  alone  lies 
back  among  her  cushions  with  a  tired  sigh,  and  a  vague 


LADY  BRANKSMERR.  323 

sense  of  having  missed  her  place  in  the  world.  Nobody 
wants  her.  She  is  a  bit  of  useless  lumber  that  ought  to 
be  condemned  to  the  attics  without  delay. 

There  is  a  pathos  in  the  impatience  with  which  she  lifts 
her  head  as  Branksmere  enters  the  room. 

"  I  hope  you  feel  better — more  yourself,"  he  says  kindly. 

"  That  is  the  last  thing  you  should  hope,"  returns  she, 
with  an  ungraciousness  born  of  miserable  thought. 

"  Still,"  gently,  "  as  I  do  hope  it,  give  me  if  you  can  the 
answer  I  would  have." 

"What  is  it,  Branksmere?"  asks  she  suddenly,  with  a 
strange,  tremulous  touch  of  passion.  She  lifts  herself  on 
her  elbow  and  looks  full  at  him  with  her  great  troubled 
eyes.  "Are  you  trying  to  arrange  your  account  with 
Heaven,  that  you  thus  seek  to  overburden  me  with  a  kind- 
ness you  cannot  feel  ?  " 

"It  is  a  pity  you  look  at  things  with  such  distorted  sight," 
returns  he.  "  I  feel  for  you  only  kindness.  Believe  that." 

"  Well,  I  don't !  "  slowly.  "  I  have  tried  to,  but  it  is  not 
possible,  I  think.  Even  a  small  thing — to  forget  it, 'is  hard 
— and  you,  how  could  you  forget  ?  Oh  !  no  !  "  She  puts 
up  her  hand  with  a  little  natural  gesture  that  betokens 
more  fully  than  words  how  impossible  she  believes  it  would 
be  for  him  to  entirely  obliterate  from  his  memory  the 
past. 

"What  can  I  do  to  convince  you,"  asks  he  in  a  tone  of 
sore  distress! 

"Nothing!  And  do  not  try  to  convince  yourself.  It 
will  be  time  thrown  away.  No  man  could  forgive  it.  And 
yet — was  it  all  my  fault  ?"  cries  she  with  growing  excite- 
ment. "If  I  had  known — at  first;  but  I  was  treated  as  a 
child,  as  a  fool  might  be,  and  then,  when  it  was  toj  late — 
the  truth  was  hurled  upon  me  !  " 

She  sinks  back  exhausted,  and  covers  her  face  with  her 
hands. 

"  The  crime  was  mine  ;  I  wronged  you,"  says  Branks- 
mere, gently  but  hurriedly  dropping  some  perfume  into 
the  hollow  of  his  hand,  and  then  pressing  the  hand  against 
her  brow.  She  does  not  turn  from  him.  "  I  believed  time 
would  arrange  all  things.  She  had  been  for  so  long  un- 
discovered— six  years  .'—that  I  thought  her  secret  would 
have  died  with  her.  We  knew  she  could  not  live  for  many 
years,  as  she  had  an  aneurism  of  the  heart  that  might  carry 
her  off  at  any  moment." 

"You   trusted  to   chance.     You  trusted    to   everything 


324  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

save  me,"  exclaims  Lady  Branksmcre,  sitting  up,  and, 
after  a  slight  effort,  rising  to  her  feet.  "  You  withheld  all 
from  me.  All  !  Oh  !  if  you  had  but  spoken  !  But  you 
were  deliberately  silent.  You  refused  me  a  wife's  place. 
You  put  me  from  you  as  though  I  were  a  stranger." 

" How  could  I  speak?  How  could  I  find  it  easy  to  ex- 
plain with  that  solemn  oath  to  the  dead  upon  my  soul  ? 
And  to  you  of  all  others  !  "  He  pauses.  His  last  words 
are  full  of  a  sad  eloquence.  What  sympathy  could  he  ex- 
pect from  her — from  the  unloving  woman  who  had  with- 
held from  him  always,  even  the  common  sympathy  of  a 
friend  !  "  How  could  I  give  voice  to  my  brother's  dishon- 
esty— and  to  you — who  cared  nothing  for  me  :  who  would 
have  received  the  story  with  a  sneer,  it  might  be,  or  a  con- 
temptuous word." 

"Ah  !"  The  exclamation  is  so  low  that  Branksmere  fails 
to  hear  it,  so  wrapped  up  he  is  in  mournful  recollection. 
It  is  indeed  almost  a  sigh. 

"  I  feared  to  speak,"  he  goes  on  hurriedly.  "  I  dreaded 
the  thought  that  you  might  demand  from  me  the  dismissal 
of  that  poor  creature,  and  have  driven  her  from  the  only 
home  she  then  knew." 

"Was  all  that  Madame  von  Thirsk's  teaching?"  asks 
Muriel,  cold  and  pale.  "Am  I  so  poor  a  thing  that  I  have 
not  even  common  pity  in  me  !  That  I  have  lowered  my- 
self in  your  esteem  I  know  ;  but  at  least  grant  me  some 
human  feeling  !  " 

There  is  a  passion  of  despair  in  her  voice. 

"  Do  not  speak  to  me  like  that,"  says  Branksmere. 
"  You  are  as  high  as  ever  in  my  esteem.  I  remember  all 
indeed,  but " 

"  As  high  as  ever  ?  "  interrupts  she.  "  Is  that  true  ?  At 
least  when  you  married  me  no  one  could  cast  a  stone  at 
me — and  now  !  Though  actually  guiltless,  in  your  secret 
soul  do  you  not  condemn  me  ?" 

"  No."  The  assurance  conies  steadily  from  his  lips. 
Laying  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  he  presses  her  back 
into  her  seat.  "This  excitement  is  bad  for  you,"  he  says, 
"and  but  that  I  know  dwelling  on  this  unhappy  subject  is 
worse,  I  would  not  permit  it.  Now,  hear  me  !  I  knew 
even  when  you  consented  to  marry  me  that  your  heart  was 
not  mine,  but  yet  I  trusted — I  hoped —  Well,  never 
mind  that!"  hastily.  "At  all  events  I  believed  myself 
satisfied  to  take  the  risk.  I  knew  you  did  not  love  me. 
What  I  did  not  know" — with  the  first  touch  of  an  impas- 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  325 

sioned  reproach  in  his  tone —  "  was  that  you  loved — an- 
other !" 

"  There  you  are  wrong,"  cries  she,  eagerly.  "  I  cared 
for  him — I  swear  it  Bi'anksmere — as  little  as  I  cared — for 
you."  The  words  are  bitter,  yet  they  contain  for  him  a 
whole  world  of  sweetness. 

"  You  say  that !  yet  you  were  willing  to  go  with — him  ! 
To  abandon  me,  who,  however  unsuited  to  you  as  you 
might  think,  had  surely  the  first  claim  on  you.  Your 
words — "  regarding  her  with  a  glance  of  agonized  uncer- 
tainty— "do  not  tally  with  your  actions." 

"  You  forget  the  provocation  !  "  returns  she  steadily,  but 
in  a  voice  that  is  growing  more  and  more  fatigued.  "  There 
was  no  love  in  me  for  you  or  him,  but  there  was  something 
stronger  that  you  created,  the  longing  for  revenge.  You 
had  (as  I  believed)  flung  me  from  my  rightful  place,  and 
planted  another  there.  I  was  nothing  to  you.  You  would 
willingly  have  seen  me  out  of  your  way  ;  while  he — (I  was 
mad  if  you  like,  but  I  would  have  staked  every  hope  I  had 
upon  it  then],  loved  me.  Great  Heaven  !  what  folly  it 
was  ;  what  a  fool  I  have  been  all  through  !  " 

"  If  you  think  that — if  you  are  sure — there  still  might 
be — — " 

4i  Xo — no,"  she  interrupts  him  passionately  putting  up 
her  hands  as  though  to  ward  him  off.  Then  in  a  calmer 
tone — "  Let  that  thought  be  dead  between  us  forever  !  " 

Branksmere,  thus  repulsed,  draws  back  from  her,  and 
leaning  his  arm  upon  the  mantel-piece  gazes  moodily  into 
the  fire. 

The  minutes  pass  slow-ly,  awkwardly,  and  then  at  last 
Muriel  breaks  the  silence  that  has  become  almost  unbear- 
able. 

"  Does  Lady  Anne  know  ? "  she  asks,  in  a  subdued  tone 
that  somehow  suits  the  moment. 

"  She  is  entirely  ignorant."  He  does  not  lift  his  eyes  as 
he  answers  her,  but  continues  his  moody  gaze  into  the  fire. 
"  Everything  was  carefully  concealed  from  her." 

"  She  and  I  are  in  the  same  boat,  then.  We  have  been 
kept,  both  of  us,  most  cruelly  in  the  dark.  And  why  ? 
Were  we  not  women,  with  hearts — with " 

"  She  was  !  That  is  why  I  decided  upon  hiding  from 
her  her  husband's  falsity." 

"  And  I  am  not !  Is  that  your  insinuation  ?  It  is  very 
bitter,  Branksmere,  but  it  is  only  just.  You  should  indeed 
be  the  one  to  scorn  me.  But  I  am  sick  of  myself.  It  is 


326  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

of  Anne  I  would  now  hear.  You  say  you  concealed  all 
from  her,  as  from  me.  Did  it  never  occur  to  you  that 
there  might  be  too  much  secrecy  ?  Do  you  know  " — with 
some  swift  vehemence — "that  but  for  all  this  diplomacy  of 
yours  she  might  have  married  years  ago,  a  good  man — a 
man  who  not  only  truly  loves  her,  but  is  worthy  of  her 
love  ? " 

"  I  don't  know  what  you  mean,"  says  Branksmere,  who 
in  truth  has  paid  little  attention  to  Lord  Primrose  and  his 
wooing.  "  Is  there  someone  who — 

"  There  is  Primrose.  I  tell  you  there  has  been  too  much 
concealment  in  this  matter.  Have  you  not  noticed  ?  Have 
you  seen  nothing  ?  Primrose  is  devoted  to  her,  and  but  for 
a  foolish  clinging  to  the  memory  of  a  man  who  was  false  to 
her,  Anne  would  have  given  him  not  only  her  hand,  but  her 
heart  long  ago." 

"  But  are  you  positive  ?  Is  there  no  doubt  ?  You  may 
perhaps " 

"  If  you  refuse  to  set  this  affair  straight,  I  shall,"  declares 
she  quickly.  "  What!  Is  everything  to  be  sacrificed  to  a 
most  ignoble  memory?  /am  bound  by  no  vows  to  the 
dead  ;  I  shall  speak,  even  though  you  withhold  permis- 
sion." 

"  I  do  not  withhold  it,"  says  Branksmere,  gently,  seeing 
how  flushed  and  exhausted  she  looks.  "  Do  as  you  think 
best  about  it,  but  spare  my  brother's  name  as  far  as  you 
can.  I  ask  this  for  Anne,  for  his  wife's  sake,  not  for  mine." 

"Then  I  have  your  permission?"  asks  she.  "Well," 
with  a  sudden  gentleness,  "  I  am  better  with  it  than  with- 
out it." 


CHAPTER  LI. 

"No  lesse  was  she  in  secret  heart  affected." 


"An!  Lady  Branksmere — alone?"  says  Primrose,  in 
his  usual  airy  fashion,  as  he  enters  the  drawing-room  about 
a  week  later.  "  That  speaks  well  for  your  strength,  eh  ?  " 

"  It  is  hardly  kind  now  to  remind  me  I  ever  was  an  in- 
valid. I  have  almost  forgotten  it,"  returns  she,  smiling 
and  pointing  to  a  low  chair  near  her  lounge.  "  Anne  has 
gone  to  the  Manor  to  carry  a  little  commission  to  Mrs. 
Dary1 ;  and  Margery  is,  I  dare  say,  arranging  with  Curzon 


LADY  BKAWS.WEKE.  327 

how  they  are  to  live  on  nothing  a.  year."  There  is  no  cal- 
lousness in  this  speech,  only  a  sort  of  tender  amusement. 

"  I  heard  of  Bellew's  loss.  I  don't  know  when  I  was 
more  sorry  for  anything,  especially  when  I  heard  of  pretty 
Miss  Margery's  decision.  Yet  they  are  not  altogether  to 
be  pitied  ;  they  have  love  on  their  side,"  says  Primrose,  in 
his  quaint  way.  "  But  they  will  be  rather  out  of  the  etcet- 
eras of  life,  I  am  afraid." 

"  I  am  afraid  so,  too.  In  spite  of  anything  /can  do,  I 
am  afraid  so,"  says  Muriel,  a  deeper  shadow  falling  into 
her  eyes.  "  However,  there  is  still  a  chance  for  them." 
She  sighs  quickly,  and  throws  from  her  with  a  swift  sigh 
the  subject  of  Margery.  "  Do  you  know,  I  have  wanted 
to  see  you  for  some  time.  To  see  you  alone,  I  mean,"  she 
says,  looking  full  at  Lord  Primrose. 

"  Now  you  have  me  at  your  disposal,  deal  gently  with 
me,"  entreats  he.  "  By  the  bye,  here  are  some  violets," 
drawing  from  a  loose  pocket  a  dishevelled  but  still  sweet 
bunch  of  those  dearest  flowers,  "that  only  want  a  little 
water  to  restore  them  to  their  pristine  beauty  and  make 
them  perfect  as  of  old.  You  would  like  them,  perhaps  ?  " 

"  I  am  not  a  receiver  of  stolen  goods — they  are  Anne's, 
I  think,"  says  she,  smiling. 

"  Well,  I  dare  say  they  were  meant  for  her,"  confesses 
the  little  man,  whose  nature  abhors  a  lie  in  any  shape  or 
form. 

"  We'll  have  them  put  into  water  for  her,"  says  Muriel, 
ringing  a  bell  close  to  her  elbow.  Then,  seizing  the  op- 
portunity given  :  "  You  have  known  Lady  Anne  for  a  long 
time,  have  you  not  ?  " 

"Always,  I  should  think.  At  least  I  have  taken  no 
count  of  the  time  when  she  was  w«known  to  me — if  she 
ever  was."  He  laughs  whimsically. 

"  You  are  a  friend  of  hers  ?  " 

To  this  Primrose  makes  no  immediate  reply.  He  looks 
at  her  fixedly,  and  then — 

"You  know  all  about  how  it  is  with  me,  eh  ?"  he  says 
simply,  looking  full  at  Muriel  out  of  his  honest,  if  remark- 
ably light  eyes.  "  1  have  you  on  my  side,  eh  ?  " 

"  You  have,  indeed.     Of  that  be  assured" 

"  I  have  no  need  of  assurance.  I  felt  it  always — that 
you  would  support  my  cause,  I  mean.  Something  in  your 
eyes  told  me  you  would  help  me,  were  help  possible.  Is 
it?" 

"There  is  always  a  chance." 


32S  LADY  BRANKSMERR. 

"Yes?  You  really  believe  I  need  not  yet  take  myself 
off  to  the  North  Pole,  or  go  a-hunting  on  the  boundless 
prairie  ?  Do  you  know  ?  " — here  he  leans  forward,  and 
changes  his  tone — "  I  think  she  likes  me  in  her  soul,  or  I 
should  not  have  made  myself  a  burden  to  her  for  so  many 
years." 

"You  are  the  one  faithful  man  on  earth,  I  think,"  says 
Muriel,  with  sudden,  if  cold,  enthusiasm.  ''  You  are  sure, 
then,  that  she — likes  you  ?  " 

"  As  positive  as  I  dare  be.  But  she  cannot  bring  herself 
to  forget  the — the  old  ties.  Odd.  Eh  ?  Because  they 
weren't  such  very  strong  ties  when  one  comes  to  remember 
them.  Not  exactly  '  all  for  love  and  the  world  well  lost ' 
sort  of  thing.  You  being  one  of  the  family  probably  know 
all  about  it. .  There  was  a  difference,  d'ye  see  ? " 

"  I  do,"  dryly. 

"  I  have  often  thought  that  you  being  so  much  Avith  her, 
and  she  being  so  attached  to  you,  that — er — you  might 
have  some  influence  with  her." 

"  Oh !  no,  no.  I  have  no  influence  with  anyone,"  de- 
clares Lady  Branksmere,  hurriedly.  "  Do  not  mistake 
about  that." 

"  If  you  haven't  influence,"  says  Primrose,  regarding  her 
keenly,  "  you  have  at  least  something  to  tell  me."  Getting 
up  from  his  seat  he  goes  over  to  the  window,  and  stands 
so  that  he  can  look  down  upon  her. 

"There  you  are  right,"  she  says.  "And  yet,  after  all,  it 
may  not  be  of  use  to  you,  so  wayward  a  woman  can  be." 
She  checks  herself  as  if  uncertain  how  to  proceed.  "What 
I  have  wanted  to  tell  you  is,  that  of  late  I  have  heard  one 
or  two  things  of —  She  pauses. 

"Lady  Anne?"  eagerly. 
,"No.     Of  her  husband." 

"  Of  Arthur  Branksmere  ?  " 

"  Yes.     You  knew  him,  I  think  ? " 

"  Intimately." 

*'  Any  good  of  him  ?" 

"Well — he's  dead  you  know,"  says  Primrose  reflectively. 

"A  very  eloquent  answer.  Dear  Primrose  !  for  once  be 
sensible — which  means  be  selfish — and  take  all  the  good 
for  yourself  that  can  be  acquired  from  what  I  am  now  go- 
ing to  tell  you." 

The  story  (a  little  shorn)  that  she  lays  before  him  fills 
him  with  astonishment,  though  indeed  his  knowledge  of 
the  late  Lord  Branksmere  had  prepared  him  for  many 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  329 

things.  To  him  (as  she  had  predicted)  this  story  of  shame 
and  horror  brings  hope  and  joy.  Already  Anne  has  been 
disillusioned,  Muriel  believing  it  to  be  a  false  kindness  that 
would  let  her  dwindle  away  the  good  days  that  yet  remain 
to  her,  in  an  absurd  regret  for  one  altogether  unworthy  of 
even  one  forgiving  thought.  All  mention  of  the  unfortu- 
nate Adela's  name,  or  of  her  residence  at  Branksmere,  has 
been  suppressed,  the  mere  bare  facts  being  laid  before 
Primrose. 

"She  knows?  You  told  her? "asks  Primrose.  "And 
she  bore  it — how  ?  " 

"  Admirably.  You  must  remember,  you  should,"  with  a 
smile,  "  be  glad  to  remember,  that  duty  had  more  to  do 
with  Anne's  married  life  than  love.  Duty  too  (a  very 
strained  duty  as  it  seems  to  me)  has  made  her  faithful  to 
his  memory.  But  I  will  confess  to  you  that  when  the  first 
shock  of  my  communication — the  surprise,  the  awakening 
— was  at  an  end,  relief  was  the  principal  expression  on  her 
charming  face."  She  looks  up  at  him  and  laughs  kindly. 
"  It  is  charming,  is  it  not  ?  "  she  asks  archly. 

"  To  be  a  just  judge  one  should  be  impartial."  Then 
he  comes  over  to  her,  and,  taking  her  hand,  lifts  it  to  his 
lip.  "Whatever  happens  after  this,"  he  says,  "I  shall 
never  forget  your  kindness  of  to-day." 

"  Is  that  Anne's  footstep  ?"  asks  Lady  Branksmere,  ris- 
ing on  her  elbow.  "  She  has  gone  into  the  southern  morn- 
ing-room, I  think.  She  is  fond  of  that  weird  old  chamber. 
Should  I  be  troubling  you  very  much,  Lord  Primrose,  if  I 
asked  you  to  bring  me  word  as  to  whether  she  did,  or  did 
not,  see  Wilhelmina." 

As  Primrose  hurries  to  the  door,  only  too  anxious  to  obey 
this  kindly  command,  she  calls  to  him. 

"  Do  not  be  in  hot  haste  to  bring  me  an  answer,"  she 
says  smiling,  "  I  am  tired.  I  shall  try  for  my  forty  winks 
now  I  have  successfully  disposed  of  you.  But  bring  Anne 
back  here  with  you  for  tea,  if  all  goes  well." 

Anne  is  marching  up  and  down  the  southern  chamber  as 
Primrose  enters  it,  her  soft  cheeks  aflame,  and  an  unwonted 
fire  in  her  mild  eyes. 

"  Poor  little  wretch ! "  she  breathes  warmly,  staring  at 
Primrose,  "  to  think  he  should  have  been  so  neglected — so 
ill-treated — and  all  in  one  day." 

"Oh,  no,"  says  Primrose,  meekly,  "there  have  been 
many  days." 

"  Pshaw!     I  am  thinking  of  my  bird,"  cries  she.     "He 


330  LADY  BRANKSMERR. 

was  almost  dead  for  the  sake  of  a  little  water  when  I  came 
in.  Servants  !  what  are  they  made  for,  I  wonder  ?" 

"  For  our  discomfort,"  soothingly. 

"  You  grow  sensible  at  last !  "  breaking  into  a  little  laugh. 
"  But  my  poor  bird  !  Just  think  how  he  has  suffered  !  " 

"Alas  !  how  kind  you  are  to  all  the  world — to  even  its 
dumb  things — save  me,"  says  Primrose,  with  a  determined 
sigh. 

"  You  are  not  dumb,  at  all  events.  You  sing  your  sor- 
rows overmuch,  it  seems  to  me." 

"  Not  overmuch  !  they  are  too  great  for  that.  And  if  I 
keep  silence  they  would  not  be  heard  at  all,"  after  which 
he  joins  her  in  her  laughter,  glad  at  heart  to  see  how  blithe 
she  can  be  in  spite  of  those  tidings  so  crushing  to  her  self- 
love,  of  which  Lady  Branksmere  has  assured  him  she  is 
now  in  full  possession.  To  speak  now  or  never,  to  strike 
while  the  iron  is  hot,  becomes  a  fixed  idea  with  him.  With 
the  words  almost  on  his  lips  that  he  intends  to  say,  he  turns 
to  her,  but  is  forestalled  in  his  intention. 

"It  is  a  most  uncomfortable  world,"  declares  Lady  Anne, 
before  he  has  time  to  speak.  She  has  sunk  into  a  chair 
upon  the  hearth-rug,  and  is  gazing  gloomily  at  the  fire 
which,  in  truth,  has  fallen  rather  low. 

"  Still,  there  are  moments  " — begins  he  in  a  deprecatory 
tone. 

"  Not  many  ; "  still  staring  at  the  waning  fire. 

"  You  take  a  too  despairing  view  of  it,  I  think,"  says 
Primrose  earnestly.  Evidently  she  has  taken  the  news  of 
her  husband's  treachery  very  much  to  heart.  "  And,  con- 
sidering the  time " 

"  That  is  what  I  am  considering,"  interrupts  she.  "  Have 
you  forgotten,"  with  a  glance  full  of  the  liveliest  reproach, 
"  that  this  is  the  month  of  November  ? " 

Primrose  racks  his  brain.  Was  this  then  the  month  in 
which  her  "  poor  Arthur  "  came  to  such  an  untimely  end  ? 
He  cannot  remember. 

"What  I  mean  is,"  he  says,  stammering  a  little,  "that 
time  brightens  all  things." 

"  Eh  ?  "  She  looks  puzzled.  "  I  don't  believe  it,"  she 
declares  at  last. 

"  Sure  to,  if  people  will  only  let  well  alone." 

"You  are  all  in  favor  of  letting  it  alone."  Again  she 
looked  perplexed.  "Now/amnot.  I  think" — with  some 
force — "  there  is  nothing  like  a  good  stirring  up  ?  " 

"  Good  heavens  !     Are  you  bent  on  raking  up  all— 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  331 

"  No  !  For  the  simple  reason — "  with  a  disconsolate 
glance  at  the  nearly  empty  fireplace,  "  that  there  is  so  lit- 
tle to  rake." 

Now  this  is  taking  a  much  more  reasonable  view  of  the 
matter. 

"  I  entirely  agree  with  you,"  says  Primrose  nervously. 
"  In  my  opinion  there  is  nothing  like  letting  things  die  out." 

"  Die  out  !  "  She  regards  him  with  some  severity.  "  I 
really  believe  you  are  trying  to  make  me  even  more 
wretched  than  I  am." 

"You  know  me  better  than  that  ?"  softly.  "You  must 
know  how  I  feel  for  and  with  you.  But — consider — would 
you  have  it  always  before  you  !  " 

"  Certainly,"  says  Lady  Anne,  with  decision.  She  seems 
a  little  disgusted.  "You  must  be  a  person  of  a  singularly 
warm  temperament,"  she  continues  with  an  approach  to 
scorn. 

"  Warm  enough,  at  least,  to  make  me  long  to  comfort 
you,  if  that  be  possible.  You  seem  very  depresssd,"  gaz- 
ing at  her  with  deep  solicitude.  "  Is  there  anything  that  I 
can  do  for  you  ?" 

"Yes,"  says  Lady  Anne,  "And  I  think  you  might  have 
done  it  before  without  all  this  tiresome  preamble." 

"  Tell  me  how  I  can  serve  you,"  cries  he  eagerly,  grow- 
ing hope  in  his  eyes.  "All  my  life,  as  you  well  know,  is 
at  your  disposal ;  and  if " 

"Well  then,  just  ring  the  bell  for  coals,  will  you,"  says 
she,  turning  once  more  with  a  shiver  to  the  dying  fire. 
"  As  I  said  before,  it  is  a  most  uncomfortable  world." 

"  Anne  !  "  calling  her  by  the  more  familiar  appellation 
in  his  chagrin,  "  do  you  mean  to  tell  me  you  have  been 
talking  of  that — er — confounded  fire  all  this  time." 

"Why,  what  were  you  talking  of?"  demands  she,  in 
turn,  staring  at  him. 

"Of — that  is — look  here,"  mumbles  he  nervously,  "you 
have  heard  about  Arthur,  haven't  you  ?  " 

"Oh  !  was  that  it  ?  "  thoughtfully.  Her  brows  contract, 
and  she  looks  distressed  and  a  little  forlorn.  "  I  had  for- 
gotten it  for  the  moment,"  she  says,  wearily. 

"  Don't  try  to  forget  it,"  advises  he  gently,  persuasively. 
"  It  would  be  impossible,  don't  you  know  ;  but  rather  let 
me  help  you  to  remember  it  with — er — equanimity.  After 
all  he  was  never  worthy  of  you,  and " 

"And  you  think  you  are,"  letting  her  eyes  rest  on  him 
with  a  reflective  regard. 


332  LADY  BRANKSMEKE. 

"  Not  altogether  !  But  I  think  I  might  be  so  in  time," 
says  he,  being  a  very  honest  lover. 

There  is  a  short  pause. 

"Well,  so  do  I,"  says  Lady  Anne  frankly,  holding  out  to 
him  her  hand.  "And  to  do  you  only  bare  justice,  Prim- 
rose, I  don't  think  time  is  required.  I  think  "  (with  a  sud- 
den beautiful  softening  of  her  gentle  eyes)  "  you  are  worthy 
of  a  far  better  woman  even  now." 

This  swift  and  sweet  surrender  takes  him  by  storm.  The 
color  springs  to  the  little  man's  cheeks. 

"  Why  should  I  dispute  so  foolish  a  speech,"  he  says,  lift- 
ing her  hand  to  his  lips.  "You  know,  Anne,  what  I  think 
of  you.  That  your  compeer  is  not  to  be  met  with  upon 
earth." 


CHAPTER   LII. 

' '  Our  happiness  in  this  world  depends  on  the  affections  we  are  enabled 
to  inspire." 

"And  then,  then  only,  when  we  love,  we  live  !  " 


ALL  the  world  outside  is  white  with  snow.  The  branches 
hang  low  because  of  it  ;  the  berries  of  the  brilliant  hollies 
are  so  far  covered  that  only  a  little  touch  of  scarlet  here 
and  there  can  be  seen.  Muriel,  stretched  upon  her  couch, 
watches  with  a  lazy  interest  a  tiny  robin  with  its  pretty 
crimson  breast,  that  hops  ever  and  ever  nearer  to  the 
crumbs  she  has  placed  upon  the  sill  outside  the  window, 
close  to  which  she  is  lying.  It  must  be  a  new  robin,  a 
trembling,  nervous  little  stranger,  because  those  who  have 
visited  her  during  the  past  month  are  now  so  tame  as  to 
have  grown  over  bold.  There  had  come  even  a  day  when 
they  had  pecked  loudly  at  her  window  pane,  as  though  to 
demand  the  dainties  she  had  forgotten  to  place  for  them. 

The  winds  are  sighing  piteously.  Ever  and  anon  they 
dash  themselves  against  the  sashes,  as  though  they  would 
fain  enter  the  cosey,  firelit  room  with  its  delicate  satin  trap- 
pings of  rose  and  chocolate,  and  its  subtle  perfume  that 
suggests  a  raid  having  been  made  by  someone  upon  the 
winter  houses. 

Feeling  a  little  tired  and  spiritless,  Lady  Branksmere 
had  refused  to  go  to  the  library  to-day,  but  had,  instead, 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  333 

ensconced  herself  in  her  boudoir,  and,  surrounded  by  peri- 
odicals, had  elected  to  sleep  and  read  away  the  afternoon. 
It  is  pretty  far  spent  now,  and,  tired  of  her  reading,  Muriel 
has  sunk  back  on  her  couch,  and  closed  her  eyes  with, 
perhaps,  a  faint  hope  that  sleep  may  visit  her. 

The  room  is  warm,  the  scent  of  the  flowers  seductive. 
She  has  grown  presently  so  drowsy  that  the  opening  of  the 
door,  though  she  hears  it,  fails  to  rouse  her  to  a  more  open 
declaration  of  wakefulness. 

Whoever  it  is  who  enters  stands  irresolutely  upon  the 
threshold  of  this,  her  own  particular  sanctum,  as  though 
uncertain  as  to  whether  he  shall  enter  or  retire,  and  yet 
evidently  unwilling  to  go.  Probably  inclination  conquers, 
because,  after  a  moment's  pause  he  comes  on  tiptoe  to  the 
fireplace,  and,  under  the  mistaken  impression  that  its  mis- 
tress is  asleep,  seats  himself  cautiously  in  a  huge  armchair. 

It  is  a  glorious  armchair,  soft  and  roomy,  and  caressing. 
Lord  Branksmere  has  not  been  in  it  many  minutes  when, 
overcome  by  the  influence  of  the  fire  and  the  seduction  of 
the  atmosphere,  he  falls  into  a  sound  sleep. 

Had  he  dreams  ?  Were  they  rose-colored  ?  Did — did 
someone  (alas !  how  unlikely — a  someone)  come  to  his 
side  and  bend  over  him,  and  brush  back  with  gentle  fin- 
gers the  dark  hair  (of  late  eo  subtly  touched  with  gray)  from 
his  forehead  ?  If  his  dreams  were  such,  they  were  evi- 
dently unfounded,  because  when  he  wakes  presently  with 
a  start,  the  room  is  as  still  as  ever,  and  Muriel  is  lying 
over  there  as  mute,  as  motionless  as  when  he  entered.  By 
the  bye  it  is  as  well  she  hadn't  waked  to  find  him  slumber- 
ing here  within  her  own  special  den.  She  would  hardly 
have  been  gracious,  to  so  decided  an  outsider.  He  smiles 
bitterly  to  himself  as  he  thinks  this,  and,  rising  to  his  feet, 
creeps  as  he  came  on  tiptoe  to  the  door. 

Being  a  man  (poor  creature  !)  he  is  of  course  clumsy, 
and  his  creeping  this  time  results  in  the  fall  of  a  little 
cranky  legged  chair  against  a  spider  table  crammed  with 
china.  Some  of  this  china  most  unkindly  comes  with  a 
crash  to  the  floor.  It  isn't  much  of  a  crash,  but  it  appar- 
ently wakes  its  owner. 

"  Who  is  there  ?"  asks  Muriel,  sitting  up  suddenly,  and 
blinking  in  a  rather  more  sleepy  fashion  than  a  sleepy  per- 
son really  would. 

''It  is  I  ;  Branksmere,"  returns  that  individual  confus- 
edly. "  There,  it  isn't  broken,"  he  says,  picking  the  ugly 
little  cup  off  the  carpet.  "  I'm  sorry  I  disturbed  you,  and 


334  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

of  course  I  ought  to  apologize  for  my  intrusion  here,  but 
finding  you  asleep  I  thought  I'd  wait — and — er— 

"  But  you  didn't  wait!  Where  are  you  going  now?" 
demands  she,  querulously,  seeing  he  is  making  for  the  door. 

"Nowhere  in  particular.  More  for  a  short  stroll  before 
dinner  than  anything  else.  If  you  dislike  being  alone, 
however,  shall  I  send — 

"No  one!  If,"  fractiously,  "you  won't  stay,  I  would 
rather  be  alone." 

She  turns  away  her  head,  and  buries  it  rebelliously  in 
the  cushions. 

Branksmere  flushes  crimson. 

"  Me  !     Do  you  want  me  to  stay  ? "  he  asks. 

"  Oh,  of  course,  I  don't.  I  only  desire  to  be  left  in 
peace,"  cries  she,  impatiently. 

Branksmere,  drawing  a  low  chair  beside  her  couch,  seats 
himself  deliberately  upon  it. 

"Don't  stick  your  nose  into  the  cushions  in  that  ridicu- 
lous way,"  he  says  in  his  usual  brusque  fashion,  "but  turn 
round,  and  explain  to  me  what  it  is  you  really  desire." 

A  low  sound  escapes  her.  She  lifts  her  head  and  makes 
a  slight  movement  in  his  direction,  and  then  sinks  back 
again  as  if  exhausted. 

"  I  feel  so  tired — so  tired, "she  breathes,  fretfully,  wearily, 
her  eyes  filling  with  tears  as  she  acknowledges  the  fatigue 
that  is  overpowering  her. 

"  You  haven't  had  your  sherry  and  quinine — that's  it,"  de- 
clares he,  springing  to  his  feet  and  bringing  it  to  her. 
"  Now,  sit  up  and  drink  it." 

"  No,"  turning  away  distastefully.     "  I  hate  it." 

"  That  isn't  of  the  least  consequence,"  coldly,  "  you  must 
take  it.  So  come.  No  don't  do  that !  You  must,  you 
know.'' 

He  holds  down  the  impatient  hand  she  has  raised. 

"  Must  I  ?  "  repeats  she,  with  a  little  feeble  exhibition 
of  determination.  "  Well,  let  us  see  !  " 

"To  please  me,  then,"  says  Branksmere,  roused  to  genius 
by  his  anxiety.  He  could  have  sunk  into  the  ground  when 
the  words  have  passed  his  lips,  but  he  has  not  time  for 
false  shame,  before  the  remarkable  results  of  his  speech 
display  themselves. 

Muriel,  when  she  has  stared  at  him  for  a  long  minute, 
drops  her  eyes,  and,  taking  the  medicine  from  his  hand, 
swallows  it  without  another  word. 

"  It  is  abominable,"  she  says  then,  pushing  him  and  the 


LADY  BKAXA'SMEKE.  335 

glass  away  from  her  and  sinking  back  upon  her  couch. 
She  speaks  harshly,  as  though  with  an  anxiety  to  reassert 
herself,  and  to  destroy  the  suspicion  of  weakness  her  com- 
pliance might  have  possibly  given  rise  to,  in  his  mind. 

"  It  will  be,  I  hope,  only  a  passing  disagreeability.  You 
will  soon  be  able  to  give  it  up,"  says  Branksmere.  Then 
he  pauses  and  looks  at  her  with  a  sudden  intensity.  His 
face  pales,  as  he  nerves  himself  to  say  what  for  some  time 
has  lain  heavy  on  his  mind.  "  You  do  not  grow  stronger," 
he  exclaims,  blurting  it  out  at  last,  in  a  rather  spasmodic 
fashion. 

"  No,"  she  smiles.  ''You,  too,  see  that  ?  "  She  stretches 
out  her  arms  with  a  gesture  of  relief.  "  I  am  glad  of  it," 
she  breathes  softly.  "  It  is  the  best  thing  that  could  hap- 
pen for  both  you  and  me." 

"  What  is  ?  "  sharply. 

"  My  death  !  I  can't  tell  you,"  her  voice  sinking  to  an 
exultant  whisper,  "  how  very,  very  much  weaker  I  have  felt 
to-day  and  yesterday.  It  will  be  consumption,  I  suppose, 
and  a  rapid  one,  I  hope." 

Branksmere,  who  has  not  recovered  his  color,  regards 
her  keenly. 

"You  are  wrong  in  one  particular,"  he  says  slowly.  "  In 
spite  of  all  that  has  come  and  gone,  I  should  not  consider 
it  the  best  thing  for  me." 

"  That  shows  your  folly,"  with  a  frown. 

"  Probably.  Yet  I  would  not  wish  myself  wiser  in  that 
matter.  And  why  should  things  be  always  between  us  as 
they  are  to-day.  Consider.  Life  is  short,  shall  we  waste 
it  ?  If,  in  the  future,  you  could  come  to  regard  me  as " 

"  No,  no  !  "  with  a  burst  of  passionate  vehemence,  shrink- 
ing from  him,  though  lie  has  not  attempted  to  touch  her, 
"put  that  out  of  your  head  at  once  and  forever.  What  ! 
Do  you  imagine  you  could  be  sincere  in  such  a  wish.  Do 
not  act  the  hypocrite,  Branksmere  !  Shun  that  ignoble 
part." 

She  sits  up  on  her  couch,  and  lifting  one  hand  presses 
back  the  loosened  hair  from  her  white  brow.  She  looks 
pale  and  haggard,  and  the  great  hollows  beneath  her  eyes 
give  those  lovely  features  a  depth  that  adds  to  their  bril- 
liancy. She  is  looking  subdued,  but  very  beautiful  in  spite 
of  the  fever  that  still  lurks  within  her  veins,  and  the  crush- 
ing memories  that  keep  her  low,  and — 

"The  passions  and  the  cares  that  wither  life, 
And  waste  its  little  hour." 


336  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  I  am  no  hypocrite,  as  you  well  know,"  returns  Branks- 
mere,  with  meaning.  "  But  \\\\\\  you  how  is  it  ?  Do  you 
conceal  nothing — hide  away  no  desire  in  your  inmost  heart 
of  which  the  world  must  not  dream  ?  You  should  think 
twice,"  coldly,  "  before  you  accuse  me  of  hypocrisy  !  " 

"  You  mean  ?  "     — demands  she,  with  stormy  eyes. 

"  I  wish  I  could  tell  you  even  half  that  I  mean,"  declares 
he,  rising  to  his  feet  and  beginning  to  pace  the  floor  with 
uneven  strides.  "Will  nothing  ever  deaden  that  memory 
within  you  ?  Must  you  always  know  regret?  And  such  a 
regret ! " 

"You  forget  yourself,"  says  Muriel.  Her  tone  is  cold. 
She  is  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  That  is  true,"  cries  he  vehemently.  "  I  forget  all.  I 
remember  only  you." 

"  Forget  me,  then  !  "  Her  tone  is  full  of  an  anger  that 
is  more  than  half  melancholy.  "  Blot  me  out  of  your  re- 
membrance. It  is  the  one  thing  I  most  earnestly  desire. 
Oh  ! "  she  clasps  her  hands  together  and  looks  full  at  him 
with  eyes  wide  and  anguished.  "  Oh,  that  I  could  be  sure 
that  your  thoughts  never  dwelt  on  me." 

"You  cannot  be  sure  of  that,"  says  Branksmere,  doggedly. 

"  Is  this  my  punishment  ?  Would  you  compel  me  to  be 
forever  before  you — knowing  you  were  remembering  ! 
See  here,"  she  cries,  in  an  impassioned  tone,  holding  out 
her  arms  to  him  with  a  gesture  full  of  entreaty.  "  Let  me 
go  !  It  is  all  I  ask.  After  all,  I  doubt  my  chance  with 
Death.  For  once  he  may  show  the  most  mistaken  mercy, 
and  instead  of  killing  me  may  leave  me  here  to  a  thing  far 
worse  than  his  embrace.  Oh  !  Branksmere,  think  !  Think. 
The  shame  of  it — it  is  the  shame  of  it  that  is  destroying  me. 
Let  me  go." 

"You  would  have  a  formal  separation  !  That  is  impos- 
sible," replies  he,  in  a  low  tone.  "  Do  not  hope  for  that  ; 
I  will  not  submit  to  it." 

"  Then  you  shall  take  the  consequences,"  cries  she 
wildly.  "  I  swear  I  will  not  live  here,  day  by  day  witli  all 
the  hateful,  the  shameful  past  forever  before  me.  Have 
you  no  pity,  none  !  Can  you  not  see  what  it  means  to  me  ? 
Or  are  you  deaf  and  blind  to  all  my  misery  ?  " 

"  You  would  leave  me,  then  !  " 

"  Forever.  Can  I  go  ? "  with  trembling  eagerness. 
"  When  may  I  go  ? " 

"  This  is  your  second  effort  to  leave  me,"  says  Branks- 
mere, calmly.  Then  all  at  once  his  studied  quiet  leaves 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  337 

him,  he  goes  quickly  to  her  and,  laying  his  hand  upon  her 
arm,  turns  her  where  the  light  can  fall  more  fully  upon 
her  face.  "  So  you  would  desert  me  forever.  Forever  ! 
that  is  what  you  say.  Is  all  my  care  of  no  avail  ?  Does 

my  silence   count  for  nothing,  my  patience,  my  for 

he  checks  himself. 

"Your  forbearance?"  coldly.  "Yes;  you  have  been 
forbearing.  Do  you  think  I  forget  ?  Oh  !  that  I  could!  " 

"If  you  could,  I  should  be  the  first  tiling  cast  aside  ?" 
His  tone  is  a  question. 

"  That  is  only  the  bare  truth,"  returns  she,  icily. 

He  lays  his  hands  upon  her  shoulders  and  bending  her 
a  little  from  him,  looks  into  her  face. 

"  Are  you  human  ?  "  he  asks,  huskily.  "  Have  you  no 
feeling  ?  Great  heaven  !  "  pushing  her  away  and  then  as 
suddenly  laying  his  hand  upon  her  arm  and  drawing  her 
back  to  him,  as  if  to  read  her  very  heart  "  How  deadly 
cruel  you  beautiful  women  can  be  !  " 

"Let  m,e  go,"  she  says,  in  a  tone  dangerously  low.  He 
loosens  his  grasp  at  once,  and  she  steps  backward  feebly, 
laying  her  hand  upon  the  chair  nearest  her  as  if  to  steady 
herself. 

"Am"  I  so  abhorrent  to  you,  that  my  very  touch  can 
bring  such  a  look  into  your  face  ?  "  demands  Branksmere, 
with  a  frown. 

The  excitement  and  the  agitation  are  telling  on  her  ter- 
ribly. She  is  trembling  from  head  to  foot. 

"  Go  !  "  she  says  faintly,  pointing  to  the  door. 

"  No,  I  shall  not  go,"  returns  he  with  a  settled  determi- 
nation. As  though  to  strengthen  his  resolve  he  seats 
himself.  "Let  us  come  to  the  root  of  this  matter.  You 
desire  a  life  altogether  apart  from  me.  Why  ?  " 

"  I  have  already  explained,"  replies  she  sullenly. 

"  To  escape  from  a  past  that  is  known  to  you  and  me 
alone  ;  to  obtain  a  freedom  that  will  leave  you  open  to  the 
world's  crudest  innuendoes.  A  woman  separated  from  her 
husband  very  seldom  gains  a  martyr's  crown  in  this  life. 
Be  reasonable,  I  entreat  you." 

"You  misunderstand — 

"On  the  contrary,  I  understand  you  well  enough.  You 
desire  leisure  to  brood  over  your  griefs,  to  spend  in  a 
vain  regret,  not  for  what  you  have  wilfully  resigned,  but  for 
what  you  have  lost." 

"  It  is  folly  to  waste  insults  on  me.  I  am  too  poor  a  foe 
for  that,"  returns  she  coldly.  "  I  have  already  told  you 


338  LADY  BKANKSMERE. 

that  regrets  of  the  kind  you  hint  at  are  unknown  to  me." 
She  moves  her  head  languidly  and  looks  at  him.  "  If  I 
might  be  alone,"  she  says,  speaking  as  if  with  difficulty, 
"or  must  I  leave  the " 

With  an  impatient  gesture  Branksmere  goes  by  her  to- 
ward the  door.  He  has  reached  it,  when  suddenly,  as  if 
compelled  to  it,  he  comes  back  to  her,  and  taking  her  in 
his  arms  strains  her  to  his  breast  with  an  almost  con- 
vulsive clasp. 

"  You  don't  love  me — I  know  that,"  he  says  in  a  stifled 
tone,  "  but  swear  to  me  before  heaven  that  you  love  no 
other  man." 

"  I  swear  it,"  says  Lady  Branksmere,  overcome  by  the 
agony  in  his  voice. 

"Not,"  gazing  fixedly  and  suspiciously  at  her,  "that 
devil !  " 

"  Oh  !  no,  no,  no."     She  shudders  violently. 

Once  again  he  presses  her  passive  form  to  his  heart,  and 
then,  with  quivering  lips  and  sombre  eyes,  looks  down  at 
her.  Her  eyes  are  lowered ;  her  features  are  still  as 
marble. 

"  Pah  !  "  he  says,  pushing  her  almost  roughly  from  him. 
"  You  have  a  heart  of  ice  !  You  are  not  worth  it  all !  " 

He  strides  toward  the  door.  He  has  gained  it — opened 
it — is  on  the  threshold — when  a  low  cry  breaks  from  her. 

"  Stay,  stay,  Branksmere ! "  she  calls  aloud  in  a  wild, 
impassioned  tone. 

Closing  the  door,  he  returns  to  her  side,  slowly,  as  one 
amazed,  and  awaits  in  silence  her  explanation.  She  strug- 
gles desperately  for  self-possession,  and  then — all  at  once, 
as  it  were — bursts  into  a  storm  of  tears,  a  storm  so  heavy 
that  it  seems  to  tear  her  frail  body  and  shake  it  to  its  very 
centre. 

"  It  is  nothing  !  "  she  sobs  vehemently.  "  Oh  !  you  should 
not  stay  because  I  ask  you.  You  should  go.  Why  should 
you  obey  any  request  of  mine  ?  I  must  be  mad  to  call  to 
you  at  all.  But  I  could  not  let  you  go  believing  me  alto- 
gether heartless.  I  am  not  that.  Ah !  if  time  could  only 
be  given  to  me  over  again  ;  if  these  last  hateful  months 
could  be  wiped  from  the  tablet  of  my  life,  how  different 
all  might  be." 

"  The  months  of  your  married  life  ?  "  asks  he  with  an 
ominous  calm  in  look  and  tone. 

"Yes." 

"  What  madness  possesses  you  to  talk  to  me  like  this," 


LADJ    BRANKSMERK.  339 

exclaims  he  suddenly.  "Are  you  determined  to  defy  me 
to  the  last  ?  Have  you  no  fear  ?  " 

"What  is  there  left  to  fear?"  asks  she  mournfully. 
"  My  own  hopes,  your  good  will,  all  I  have  bartered.  If 
these  dead  months  I  speak  of  had  never  been,  you  might 
still —  She  breaks  off  abruptly,  and  glances  at  him  in 

a  half-frightened,  nervous  fashion. 

"I  might,  what?"  demands  he,  eagerly.  His  manner 
lias  entirely  changed,  the  hidden  wrath  has  been  con- 
quered— a  deep  anxiety  has  taken  its  place. 

"  Do  not  pursue  the  subject.  It  is  useless  to  go  into  it 
now.  The  past  is  ever  with  me,  there  is  no  escaping  it, 
and  the  future  is  a  void  from  which  I  shrink." 

"  Nevertheless,  tell  me." 

She  makes  a  negative  gesture  with  her  hand.  It  seems 
as  though  she  is  afraid  to  speak,  lest  words  bring  with 
them  tears  once  more. 

"  Do  not  repulse  me,  I  implore  you,"  entreats  he,  laying 
his  hand  upon  her  arm.  "  Speak — say  what  was  on  your 
mind — what  was  on  your  lips  just  now  ?  " 

Impressed  by  the  solemnity  of  his  address,  she  struggles 
with  herself,  and  at  last  some  words  fall  from  her. 

"If  time  could  roll  backward.  If  this  could  be  again 
the  year  when  first  I  saw  you  ;  if  you  could  be  once  more 

my  lover — not  my  husband "  She  stops  dead  short,  as 

though  to  go  further,  to  enter  into  explanation,  to  termi- 
nate her  sentence,  is  beyond  her. 

"  I  am  your  lover  now,  as  I  was  then — as  I  shall  be  al- 
ways " — says  Branksmere  in  a  low  but  steady  tone.  The 
words  have  hardly  passed  his  lips,  when  he  has  to  go 
quickly  to  her  assistance.  The  color  has  fled  from  her 
lips  ;  she  sways  helplessly,  and  but  that  he  catches  her  in 
his  arms  she  would  have  fallen. 


CHAPTER   LIII. 

'"Tis  death  to  me  to  be  at  enmity." 


LIFTING  her  he  lays  her  gently  on  the  fur-covered  lounge, 
and  bending  over  her  gazes  with  a  terrible  anxiety  upon 
her  face  that  is  now  as  pale  as  though  death  has  already 
claimed  her  for  his  own.  Her  beautiful  limbs  stretched 
nerveless  upon  the  couch  show  no  sign  of  life  ;  the  purple 


340  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

lines  beneath  the  closed  lids  throw  out  more  clearly  the 
marble  pallor  of  the  cheeks  below. 

If  she  has  fainted,  however,  it  is  an  insensibility  of  but 
short  duration.  Presently  she  uplifts  the  heavy  lids,  and 
sighing  gently,  moves  her  tired  head  from  side  to  side. 
Sitting  down  by  her,  Branksmere  gently  chafes  her  hand, 
and  after  a  little  induces  her  to  take  a  glass  of  champagne 
he  has  procured  from  Bridgman. 

After  five  minutes  or  so  have  gone  by  in  absolute  silence, 
Muriel  suddenly  turns  her  eyes  full  upon  him.  There 
is  in  them  the  fretful  reproach  of  one  who  is  either  very  ill 
or  very  unhappy. 

"  These  pillows  !  "  she  says  petulantly,  "  Oh  !  how  they 
make  my  head  ache." 

"  Let  me  settle  them,"  softly,  as  though  consoling  a  little 
weary  child,  he  speaks.  He  raises  the  pillows,  and  is  still 
arranging  them,  so  that  she  must  know  comfort,  when  her 
head  falls  back  as  if  exhausted.  Her  eyes  close,  and 
Branksmere,  fearing  she  has  again  fainted,  does  not  dare 
to  stir,  hardly  indeed  dares  to  breathe,  while  she  lies  there 
resting  unconsciously  within  his  arms.  It  reminds  him  of 
that  first  day  after  her  great  illness  when  he  had  in  such 
wise  supported  her  ;  but  then  she  had  been  indeed  unaware 

of  his  presence.  Now .  His  heart  beats  quickly. 

Stooping  to  examine  more  minutely  the  lovely  wasted 
face,  he  sees  that  she  has  recovered  herself,  and  that  two 
tears  have  forced  themselves  from  under  her  long  lashes. 
She  is  sensible,  yet  she  has  not  withdrawn  herself  from  his 
encircling  arm  ! 

The  tears  slowly,  very  slowly,  travel  down  the  wan  lines 
of  her  face,  but  her  eyes  go  up  to  his. 

"  How  good  you  are  to  me  !  "  she  breathes  brokenly. 
She  lifts  the  hand  that  is  round  her  neck,  and  drawing  it 
still  more  tightly  round  her  presses  the  fingers  to  her  lips. 
A  thrill  runs  through  Branksmere.  Now,  at  last,  when 
despair  has  seemed  his  portion,  is  life,  hope,  joy  coming  to 
him!  "  But  you  must  not  say  such  things  to  me.  My lover  ! 
Alas  !  all  such  times  are  gone  for  me.  I  am  an  outsider,  a 
creature  with  no  interests,  and  in  whom  no  one  finds  in- 
terest. There  are  moments,"  she  says,  with  a  pathetic  at- 
tempt at  calm  that  strikes  him  as  being  especially  mourn- 
ful, "  when  I  feel  the  loneliness  of  it — the  desire  for 
something  beyond — something  irrecoverable." 

"Muriel,  do  not  turn  from  me.  Look  at  me.  When  I 
used  that  word  I  meant  it.  Your  lover.  I  am  your  lover 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  341 

now,  even  now."  His  face  has  blanched,  his  tone  is  sharp 
and  impassioned. 

"All  that  is  folly,"  cries  she  excitedly,  rising  on  her  el- 
bow. "You  would  be  something  more  than  human  to  for- 
give what  has  happened.  It  is  impossible,  I  tell  you."  She 
draws  her  breath  with  an  uncertain  violence,  as  though 
deeply  agitated.  Her  eyes  meet  his  ;  suddenly  she  covers 
her  face  with  her  hands.  "  Oh,"  cries  she,  with  a  wild  in- 
consistency, "if  it  might  be  possible.  If  I  might  dare  be- 
lieve  " 

"  Believe  this,  at  least,  Muriel,  that  I  love  you." 

"You  could  not  love— remembering." 

"  I  suppose  I  could — because  I  do." 

"  What !  Nay,  Branksmere,  why  should  you  perjure 
yourself  to  please  a  dying  woman.  Think,  dwell  on  all 
that  has  occurred,  and  tell  me  if  you  can  still  hold  to  your 
words." 

"  Do  you  imagine  I  have  not  thought.  And  yet — I  love 
you.  To  forget  is  not  within  the  reach  of  any  man  ;  and 
though  every  smallest  detail  of  your — error" — here  his 
voice  falls — "is  fresh  within  my  memory,  I  still  swear  to 
you  that  you,  and  no  other  woman  upon  earth,  can  call  my 
heart  her  own." 

"  And  if— 

"  You  think  me  weak,  perhaps  ?  Is  that  my  reward  ? 
Other  men  might  condemn  what  you  have  done,  but  I 
must  be  different  from  my  fellows,  because  I  see  no  fault 
in  you.  I  have  forgiven  all.  I  would — if  only  you  would 
let  me — raise  you  to  the  very  highest  throne  in  my  affec- 
tions." 

His  dark  eyes,  large  and  eager,  seek  hers,  and  meet  them. 
What  he  sees  there  sends  a  swift  flush  into  his  cheek. 

"  Ah,  my  day  has  come,  then,"  he  cries,  with  vehement 
exultation.  "  I  have  waited,  but  I  have  won."  He  takes 
her  face  between  his  hands,  and  gazes  intently  into  it. 
"  You  will  love  me,  Muriel  ?  Is  that  what  your  eyes  say  ? 
Is  that  what  your  blush  means  ?  Is  that  what  your  lip 
would  utter  ?  Oh,  my  beloved,  for  once  let  your  lips  speak 
the  real  truth  to  me,  of  their  own  accord." 

He  leans  over  her,  nearer,  nearer  still.  Their  breaths 
mingle,  coming  swiftly  through  their  parted  lips,  their  eyes 
grow  to  each  other,  there  is  one  wild  tremulous  movement, 
and  then  they  are  in  each  other's  arms,  heart  to  heart  at 
last,  with  all  save  love  forgotten  ! 

The   sound  of    footsteps  echoing  through  the  corridor 


342 


LADY  BRANKSMERE. 


without  rouses  them  at  last  to  a  sense  of  every-day  life. 
There  is  a  subdued  colloquy  in  the  corridor  without,  and 
Bridgman,  having  taken  the  salver  from  the  footman,  brings 
it  in  and  hands  some  cards  to  Muriel. 

"  Lady  Primrose,  Mrs.  Amyot,  Lady  Bellair."  She  reads 
this  much  aloud  to  show  Bridgman  she  is  her  usual  calm 
self,  and  then  breaks  down  and  rather  mumbles  over  the 
others. 

"  You  can't  receive  them  ;  it  will  be  too  much  for  you," 
says  Branksmere  tenderly,  when  Bridgman  has  retired. 
"  I'll  take  an  excuse,  if  you  will." 

"Tired,  no.  I  feel  strong,  well!"  cries  she,  rising 
brightly — if  a  little  slowly — to  her  feet  ;  "  you  have  given 
me  fresh  life  !  " 

There  is  something  in  her  new-born  gayety  that  reminds 
him  of  Margery.  In  a  moment,  as  it  were,  she  has  blos- 
somed into  a  brilliant  creature,  hitherto  unknown,  unsus- 
pected ;  the  great  soft  light  that  is  illumining  her  eyes  is 
altogether  strange  to  him.  "  I  should  like  to  see  them," 
she  says  eagerly.  "  I  can  give  them  a  real  welcome  to-day. 
I  feel  friendly  toward  all  the  world."  Stopping  short  sud- 
denly, and  laying  her  hands  on  Branksmere's  arms  :  "What 
a  different  woman  I  am  now  !  Do  you  think  they  will  know 
me — recognize  me  ?  " 

"/should  recognize  you,"  returns  he  tenderly,  raising 
her  arms  and  inducing  her  to  lay  them  round  his  neck. 
"  All  these  gone  sad  months  you  have  not  been  my  Muriel, 
but  now  she  has  come  to  me.  But,  sweetheart,  consider. 
All  this  excitement,  is  it  good  for  you  ?" 

"Very  good,"  smiling,  and  in  truth  a  faint,  warm  color 
has  stolen  into  her  cheeks,  and  reddened  her  pale  lips. 
"Come  !"  she  holds  out  her  hand  to  him  as  she  walks  to 
the  door. 

All  at  once  she  pauses  and,  lifting  her  hands  to  her  au- 
burn head,  looks  at  him  anxiously. 

"  Shall  I  do  ?  Is  my  hair  all  right  ?  "  she  asks  him  anx- 
iously. There  is  something  in  the  confidential  glance  and 
tone  that  convinces  him  more  than  all  that  has  gone  be- 
fore that  she  is  indeed  his  own. 

"  Oh,  darling  !  To  think  it  is  all  true  ! "  he  says,  some- 
what irrelevantly,  but  out  of  the  very  fulness  of  his  heart. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  343 

CHAPTER   LIV. 

"A  woman  who  wants  a  charitable  heart  wants  a  pure  mind.'' 
"Hail !  holy  love,  thou  word  that  sums  all  bliss." 

"  HERE  she  is,"  cries  Margery  gayly,  as  Muriel,  followed 
by  Lord  Branksmere,  enters  the  room.  "  So  glad  !  "  she 
whispers  lightly,  to  Mrs.  Billy,  who  with  Lady  Anne  has 
been  entertaining  everybody. 

They  all  rise  in  a  body  to  receive  the  beautiful  invalid 
and  to  give  her,  in  fact,  a  gentle  ovation.  But  she  looks 
so  unlike  the  orthodox  thing — so  brilliant,  so  fresh,  so  full 
of  life,  that  surprise  after  awhile  seizes  hold  upon  them. 

"  By  Jove,  you  know,"  says  Halkett,  who  has  run  down 
from  town  for  a  day  or  two  to  be  near  his  bride-elect ;  "  I 
never  saw  such  a  transformation  in  my  life  ;  I  wish  /could 
catch  that  fever." 

"  Don't,"  whispers  Mrs.  Vyner,  now  Lady  Bellair,  who  is 
near  him,  in  her  little  caustic  whisper  ;  "  one  fever  at  a 
time  is  surely  enough — and  yours  is  bad." 

Mrs.  Billy  has  pressed  Muriel  into  an  arm-chair  close  to 
old  Lady  Primrose,  whose  corkscrew  ringlets  are  a  trifle 
more  pronounced  than  usual,  owing  to  the  fact  that  her 
maid  has  pushed  the  poor  old  thing's  front  more  to  the 
front  than  is  desirable.  But  Lady  Primrose,  providentially 
unaware  of  this,  is  in  her  most  amiable  mood,  and  having 
embraced  Muriel  warmly,  has  fallen  (through  the  heat  of 
her  affections  possibly)  into  a  comfortable  doze. 

"  Muriel,  what  has  happened  ?  "  asks  Mrs.  Billy,  leaning 
over  the  old  lady's  slumbering  form. 

"All  that  you,  my  best  friend,  could  desire,"  returns 
Lady  Branksmere  softly. 

Lady  Bellair  having  at  last  managed  a  tete-a-tete  with 
Mrs.  Amyot  (who,  in  a  measure,  has  seemed  to  avoid  her 
ever  since  her  entrance),  now  sinks  into  a  low  seat  near 
that  lately  affianced  dame,  and  opens  fire  without  delay. 

"So  you  were  afraid  to  tell  me,"  she  says,  with  a  mali- 
cious smile. 

"Afraid!"  repeats  Mrs.  Amyot  with  the  absurdest  as- 
sumption of  ignorance,  that  sets  the  other  laughing. 

"  It  is  really  true,  then  ?  " 

"  Is  what  true  ?  " 

"  The  horrible  report  I  have  heard  about  you."     She 


344  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

throws  so  much  mystery  into  this  remark  that  Mrs.  Amyot 
gets  off  the  line,  and  wanders  into  an  unsound  belief  that 
it  is  nothing  so  respectable  as  a  report  about  her  approach- 
ing marriage  that  has  shocked  Lady  Bellair. 

"About  me,"  she  says,  frowning  slightly.  "What!  is 
your  last  bit  of  scandal  then  about  your  friend  ?  Has  it 
come  to  that,  Louisa  ?" 

"It  has,"  declares  Louisa  tragically,  who  is  delighted 
with  the  turn  affairs  have  taken  ;  "not  that  I  believe  it. 
I  don't  myself  think  you  could  be  guilty  of  it." 

"  That  is  so  good  of  you  !  We  all  know  what  that  kindly 
assurance  means.  Not  only  that  you  do  believe  the  lie, 
but  that  you  are  rejoiced  in  your  heart  that  you  can  do  so. 
Well !  speak.  Let  me  hear  about  this  terrible  '  it.'  " 

"  If  you  compel  me  to  mention  it,"  demurely,  "of  course 
I  must.  But  before  I  speak  be  so  good  as  to  remember 
that  I  have  exonerated  you  in  my  own  mind." 

"Oh,  never  mind  your  mind,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot  impa- 
tiently. "  It  was  never  anything  worth  talking  about." 

"Well,  but— 

"  Will  you  go  on  ?  "  angrily. 

"  I  am  so  afraid  you  will  be  annoyed." 

"  Put  that  fear  in  your  pocket.  I  am  annoyed  already, 
and  it  doesn't  seem  to  have  done  you  much  harm,  or 
hastened  your  slander.  Come,  what  is  it  ?" 

"  Hear,  then,  if  you  will,  what  people  are  saying  about 
it.  They  actually  have  spread  it  all  over  town  that  you — 
are — going  to  be — married!  " 

Mrs.  Amyot  leans  back  in  her  chair  and  gives  way  to 
subdued  but  vehement  merriment.  Lady  Bellair  does 
quite  as  much  of  it  inwardly,  but  not  a  muscle  of  her  face 
betrays  the  fact. 

"Oh!  Nan,"  she  says  reproachfully.  "It  is  a  wicked 
story  I  know,  but  I  think  you  might  ease  my  mind  by 
denying  it." 

"  The  world  will  be  a  blank  to  me,  Louisa,  when  I  lose 
you,"  declares  Mrs.  Amyot  at  last.  "  You  are  a  sort  of 
harmless  laughing-gas,  so  far  as  I  am  concerned.  Well— 
I'm  glad  you  don't  take  my  news  worse." 

"You  acknowledge  it,  then,  without  blushing?" 

"Why  should  I  blush— at  my  age  ?" 

"  Because  of  your  age  !  You,  whom  I  believed  above 
the  weaknesses  of  your  sex!  You,  who  had  lost  and  re- 
gained freedom  to  deliberately  fling  it  away  again  !  There 
must  be  madness  in  your  veins." 


LADY  BRAXKSMERE.  345 

"  I  don't  look  at  it  in  your  light." 

"Evidently  not.     At  least  not  now.     But  after  ?  " 

"  Never!"  returns  Mrs.  Amyot,  with  force  gathered  from 
a  glance  just  gained  from  Halkett's  eyes. 

"  Besotted  fool  !  "  murmurs  Lady  Bellair,  in  a  mournful 
tone.  "  Can  naught  be  done  to  save  thee  ? " 

"Now,  do  you  mean  to  tell  me,"  begins  Mrs.  Amyot, 
turning  to  her  in  a  brisk  way,  "  that  if  Lord  Bellair  were 
to — to  deprive  us  eternally  of  his  society  you  know — that 
you  would  never  marry  again  ?  " 

"  Catch  me  at  it !  "  says  Lady  Bellair,  with  more  prompt- 
itude than  elegance.  "  If  such  an  outrageous  bit  of  luck 
were  to  fall  my  way,  I  should  know  better  than  that.  But 
it  won't,"  dismally.  "  Fancy  your  imagining  I  should  trust 
any  man  again  after  the  mean,  the  disgraceful  way  Bellair 
is  behaving." 

"  What  has  he  done  now  ? " 

"  Nonsense,  my  dear.  The  question  is  an  insult.  He 
must  have  known  that  I  married  him  in  the  full  conviction 
that  he  would  have  the  decency  to  drop  off  the  instant  he 
came  in  for  the  title.  It  is  now  fully  six  months  since  old 
Lord  Bellair  made  room  for  him,  and  yet  up  to  this  he  has 
declined  to  move  on.  Why,  he  is  as  lively  as  a  cricket  and 
worse  tempered  than  ever.  There  is  no  chance  for  me, 
you  see,  because  he  looks  with  scorn  upon  tobacco,  regards 
brandy  as  an  abomination,  goes  to  bed  as  regular  as  clock- 
work at  ten  o'clock,  rises  at  a  healthful  hour,  I  am  told, 
and  in  fact  eschews  all  methods  of  dying." 

"  I  wonder  if  you  mean  all  you  say  ?  " 

"Now  don't  give  yourself  airs,  just  because  you  are  go- 
ing to  marry  your  own  true  love,  as  you  think,"  says  Lady 
Bellair,  with  a  contemptuous  grin.  "  Mean  it  ?  Rather  ! 
And  only  this  morning  he  told  me  he  never  felt  so  brisk  or 
so  lively  for  years,  and  quite  looked  as  if  he  expected  me 
to  be  glad  about  it.  Glad  !  Do  you  call  that  being  like  a 
gentleman  ?  It's  downright  low,  in  my  opinion." 

"Here  he  is,"  whispers  Mrs.  Amyot,  in  a  subdued  tone. 

"  Ah  !  you  !  "  cries  the  fair  Louisa,  drawing  her  flounces 
aside  as  if  to  make  room  for  him  on  the  lounge  beside  her, 
with  the  prettiest  air  of  welcome  imaginable.  "  Is  it  not 
charming  to  see  our  dear  Lady  Branksmere  so  altogether 
her  adorable  self  once  more  ?  That  gown,  too  ;  what  a 
success — and  the  color  of  it  ?  Somebody  must  have  in- 
A'ented  it  for  her.  Schalt,  I  shouldn't  wonder  ;  isn't  she  de- 
licious ? " 


346  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

"  Don't  know,  I'm  sure,"  growls  the  new  old  Earl  gruff- 
ly, as  he  passes.  ''Never  took  a  bite  out  of  her." 

"  Darling  old  thing  !  "  murmurs  his  wife,  apostrophizing 
his  vanishing  back  for  the  benefit  of  Mrs.  Amyot,  after 
which  she  puts  her  face  behind  her  fan  and  laughs  im- 
moderately. 

"  Somebody  told  me  you  never  took  him  anywhere  with 
you  now  ;  that  you  had  by  some  lucky  chance  got  him 
well  under  your  control,  and  kept  him  there." 

"  If  you  mean  that  I  keep  him  at  home,  as  a  rule,  you 
are  right.  You  can  see  for  yourself  he  is  not  to  be  trusted 
abroad  without  a  keeper,  his  temper  is  so  infinitely 
stronger  than  he  is.  I  was  weak  enough  to  consent  to  his 
accompanying  me  here  to-day  (he  heard  Lady  Primrose 
was  to  be  here,  and  wished  to  see  her — old  flame  of  his,  I 
shouldn't  wonder — about  the  same  century,  eh  ?)  and  now 
you  see  what  has  been  the  result  of  my  leniency.  Dissi- 
pation disagrees  with  him,  and  brings  out  all  his  nasty 
points.  But  I'm  so  good-natured  !  1  am  sure  it  will  be 
my  ruin.  Believe  me,  home  is  the  best  place  for  him. 
'  Exempt  from  public  haunt '  he  can't  do  much  mischief  at 
all  events." 

"Who  is  talking  of  mischief?"  asks  Halkett,  drawing 
near,  and  looking  as  affectionately  at  his  betrothed  as 
decency  will  permit. 

"  I  was,"  says  Lady  Bellair.  "I  can't  bear  mischievous 
people,  can  you  ? " 

"  I  can — some  of  them,"  returns  he,  with  an  expressive 
glance  at  her. 

"You  are  like  me,"  returns  she,  unabashed.  "Too 
good-hearted  by  half.  This  is  a  cheap  day,  if  you  like.  I 
don't  know  when  I  have  been  so  entertained  as  I  have 
been  during  the  past  hour  by  Nan." 

"This,  of  course,  means  that  she  has  been  listening  to 
unlimited  scandal,"  and  Halkett  casts  a  reproachful  glance 
at  his  beloved. 

"Oh!  yes.  She's  been  at  it  again,"  continues  Lady 
Bellair,  who  is  nothing  if  not  malicious  in  a  light  and 
playful  fashion.  "What!"  with  a  careful  artlessness, 
"  not  discovered  that  trait  of  hers  yet  ?  A  poor  lover, 
say  I  !  He  can't  have  studied  you,  Nan  ;  he  hasn't  given 
you  his  undivided  attention.  You'll  throw  him  over  if 
you  have  a  spark  of  spirit." 

"Whose  spirit  ?  Yours  ? "  asks  Halkett,  who  is  always  a 
little  amused,  and  a  little  angry  when  with  her.  "  Do  not 


LADY  BRANKSMERR.  347 

trouble  your  head  about  either  of  us  ;  we  shall  do  very 
well.  To  make  a  departure,  have  you  noticed  how  well 
Lady  Branksmere  is  looking  ?  " 

"  There  is  nothing  else  to  notice,"  with  naive  candor. 
"  We've  noticed  all  the  rest  of  you  so  painfully  often  that 
it  isn't  to  be  done  again.  That's  the  worst  of  the  country  : 
its  gossip  is  so  limited,  and  grows  so  remarkably  stale.  Yes, 
Lady  Branksmere  is  singularly  improved.  There  is  some- 
thing in  the  whole  menage — brighter,  fuller.  How  is  it  ?  " 

"  A  general  rejoicing  over  her  recovery,  no  doubt." 

"A  trifle  more  than  that  I  fancy,"  dryly.  "  One  looks 
round  and  finds  empty  spaces  surely.  Madame  missing. 
Staines  obliterated.  It  suggests  a  compromise,  eh  ?" 

"  Nonsense,"  says  Halkett. 

"  Not  at  all,  in  my  opinion.  Very  wise,  on  the  contrary, 
and  very  careful,  but  very  poor  j  effect  nowhere.  I  did 
the  heroine  of  our  little  comedy  the  honor  to  believe  she 
would  have  shown  more  pluck  when  the  crisis  came, 
whatever  Monsieur  might  do.  It  was  easy  for  him,  see 
you.  Madame  was  so  decidedly passee." 

"  Pouf ;  you  know  nothing,"  whispers  Mrs.  Amyot 
lightly,  who  has  grown  very  respectable  since  her  engage- 
ment. "  Staines  received  his  conge  simply  on  account  of  the 
discovery  of  that  little  affair  of  his  in  Brussels.  Every  one 
knows  it  now.  Branksmere,  it  appears,  heard  of  it  from  a 
man  who  was  actually  in  the  room  when  that  king  was 
played,  that  was  so  decidedly  de  trop — sort  of  usurper  as 
it  were." 

"  Isn't  she  sharp!"  murmurs  Lady  Bellair  turning  her 
eyes  full  of  a  fond  appreciation  upon  Mrs.  Amyot.  "And 
what  a  pretty  story,  too.  It  comes  in  useful  here.  I  like 
ingenuity.  I  particularly  admire  the  way  in  which  that 
canard  has  been  made  to  fit." 

She  pauses  to  pull  her  skirts  aside,  and  to  smile  on 
Tommy  Paulyn,  who,  with  Angelica,  is  passing  by,  enroute 
to  the  conservatory  beyond. 

"  There  is  a  whisper  in  the  air  that  Paulyn  is  going  to 
settle  down  with  that  extremely  youthful  cousin  of  his," 
remarks  Halkett  in  a  low  tone. 

"  What !  that  baby  ? " 

"It  was  Mrs.  Daryl  who  whispered  it  to  me  She  is  a 
funny  little  woman,  who  tells  a  funny  little  story  very  well. 
Last  evening,  it  appears,'  May — one  of  the  twins — found 
Paulyn  with  Miss  Angelica  in  a  distant  and  rather  unfre- 
quented part  of  the  shrubberies,  in  at  attitude  that  struck 


348  LADY  BRANKSMERE. 

the  child  as  being  full  of  interest.  He  had  his  arm  round 
her.  '  I  think  he  was  kissing  her,' said  Miss  May,  'and 
though  she  was  very  red,  she  wasn't  a  bit  angry,  and  that's 
what  I  couldn't  understand,  because  Tommy  is  such  an 
ugly  little  thing  ! ' ' 

They  all  laugh. 

"Well,  I  expect  Tommy  could,"  says  Lady  Bellair.  "  I 
declare  I  call  it  absurd  !  Everybody  is  going  to  be  mar- 
ried, it  seems  to  me.  Matrimony  is  an  epidemic,  and  all 
the  world  down  here  has  caught  it.  Two  fresh  victims 
have  just  gone  by,  who,  it  is  apparent  to  every  one,  are 
sickening  for  it.  Then  there  are  you  and  " — nodding  at 
Halkett — "you!  Lady  Anne  and  that  insane  little  Prim- 
rose, and  last  of  all  I  hear  that  Margery,  that  pretty  little 
Daryl  idiot,  is  going  to  throw  herself  away  upon  that  ex- 
tremely ugly  young  man  who  has  come  to  grief  with  his 
income,  and  isn't  worth  a  sou.  Sort  of  thing,  after  all,  one 
would  expect  from  a  girl  with  her  eyes." 

"It  seems  a  sacrifice  certainly,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot. 

"  I  dare  say  not.  I  expect  he  is  good  enough  for  any 
woman  who  could  so  sinfully  fling  away  her  chances.  But 
what  is  she  going  to  do  with  her  big  pauper?  Of  course 
his  size  aggravates  the  trouble.  It  must  take  such  a  lot  to 
keep  up  those  shoulders  of  his." 

"  He  has  something,  I  believe,"  ventures  Mrs.  Amyot 
doubtfully,  gazing  regretfully  across  the  room  to  where 
Bellew  is  talking  to  Billy  Daryl.  "What  a  young  Her- 
cules he  is  !  I'm  more  sorry  than  I  know  about  it." 

"There  is  nothing  that  so  surely  means  poverty  as  that 
vague  '  something]  "  declares  Lady  Bellair  yawning  vaguely. 
"  He  hasn't  a  penny  worth  speaking  about,  believe  me.  If 
she  doesn't  very  wisely  cry  off,  before  she  takes  the  fatal 
plunge,  they  will  know  what  it  is  to  be  beggars.  How 
horrid  it  sounds — eh  !  " 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  ma'am,"  says  a  gruff  voice  behind 
them  that  makes  Lady  Bellair  jump,  for  perhaps  the  first 
time  in  her  imperturbable  life,  and  turns  Mrs.  Amyot  crim- 
son. Halkett  had  taken  himself  off  a  few  minutes  ago. 
"  That '  little  Daryl  idiot,'  as  you  so  politely  term  my  niece, 
will  never  be  a  '  beggar  '  or  a  '  pauper  '  either."  Sir  Mutius 
Mu  in  in,  thrusting  his  head  forward,  glares  at  Lady  Bellair 
and  nods  at  her  furiously. 

"  Really,  Sir  Mutius,  I — er— 

"  She  is  my  niece,  ma'am,  mine"  declares  Sir  Mutius,  in 
a  tone  rich  in  offended  dignity. 


LADY  BRANKSMERE.  349 

"  I'm  sure  I  congratulate  her,"  returns  Lady  Bellair, 
who  has  now  quite  recovered  her  self-possession. 

"  My  niece,  ma'am,"  reiterates  old  Grumpy,  who  has 
now  worked  himself  into  a  regular  passion.  "  I  must  re- 
quest," bringing  his  stick  down  upon  the  floor  with  an 
emphasis  that  makes  the  Dresden  shepherdess,  upon  the 
cabinet  close  at  hand,  shake  in  her  china  shoes,  "  that 
every  one  will  remember  that.  My  niece,  ma'am,  and  my 
heiress  too  !  D'ye  hear  that  ? "  He  pauses,  as  though 
what  he  has  just  said  is  astonishing  himself  also.  "No 
niece  of  mine,  ma'am,  need  be  a  pauper,  or  a  beggar,  or  a 
vagrant.  My  niece  " — he  sticks  to  this  word  aggressively 
— "  as  Mrs.  Bellew,  will  be  able  to  hold  up  her  head  as  well 
as —  "  he  stops  short,  and  looks  full  in  a  malignant  way 
at  Lady  Bellair  "  the  worst  of  you." 

Without  waiting  for  a  rejoinder  to  this  pretty  speech  he 
hobbles  away.  Mrs.  Amyot  lifts  her  brows.  Halkett, 
coming  up  again,  is  desired  to  stand  still  that  he  may  hear 
old  Grumpy's  announcement. 

"  To  be  his  heiress  means  a  good  deal,"  says  Mrs.  Amyot. 

"  Lady  Bellair,  they  owe  you  an  immense  debt  of  grati- 
tude," laughs  Halkett.  "  In  my  opinion  Sir  Mutius  would 
never  have  left  them  a  penny  if  you  had  not  talked  of 
Margery's  being,  possibly,  a  beggar.  I  believe,  in  spite  of 
yourself,  you  have  done  a  good  action  to-day." 

"  Well,  really,  I  couldn't  help  it,"  returns  she  apologeti- 
cally. 

"  I  am  so  glad  their  happiness  is  assured,"  says  Mrs. 
Amyot  warmly.  "  After  all — it  is  a  poor  thought  I  own — 
but  money  has  a  good  deal  to  do  with  it.  What  ?  Will 
nobody  agree  with  me  ?  Am  I  " — with  a  reproachfully 
amused  glance  all  round — "the  only  mercenary  person  in 
the  room  ?  Come  to  my  rescue  then,  Lady  Branksmere, 
I  beseech  you." 

Thus  lightly  appealed  to,  Muriel  hesitates,  and  involun- 
tarily glancing  at  Branksmere,  she  sees  something  in  the 
earnest  gaze  he  has  fastened  on  her  that  dyes  her  face  a 
warm,  sweet  crimson. 

"  I  am  afraid  you  have  chosen  a  bad  advocate,"  she  an- 
swers softly.  "  No,  I  do  not  think  money  has  so  very 
much  to  do  with  one's  happiness." 

"What  then  ?" 

"  Love,"  says  Muriel,  in  a  tender,  tremulous  tone. 

THE    END. 


X. 


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